


Dragon Age Prompts (Collection 1)

by jawsandbones



Series: Dragon Age Prompts [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Drabbles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Multiple Relationships, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2018-07-18 06:53:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 351
Words: 204,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7304044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of all the things too small to give their own post - generally prompts I receive. Tags will be updated accordingly!<br/>Multiple relationships, but the majority is FenHawke. There is also Dorian x Inquisitor, Cullen x Inquisitor, Zevran x Warden, etc etc. (Too many to fully tag - all relationships specified in the title so you can find what exactly you want.) A little something for everyone!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wine and Weddings (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Author's Note:**

> Always happy to write - feel free to send me prompts at [ my tumblr](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/), or leave a comment! :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Wine"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

 

“Why am I here? I don’t know anything about wine,” Hawke asks, her arm linked in Fenris’s. Wine tasting wasn’t exactly her idea of a fun afternoon but Fenris was giving her a smug smile.

“You’re here because I asked you to be. Just as I came with you to the food tasting.”

“Yeah but that’s _food_. You don’t need to know anything fancy about food to know it’s good,” Hawke says, to which Fenris only snorts. Hawke felt wildly out of place in the crowd, everyone else sniffing the wine before tasting it, or turning the glass, making sage comments while she only sipped at each sample and tasted the same thing each and every time.

“Here try this one,” Fenris says, grinning brilliantly and passing a glass to her. Hawke raised her eyebrows and did as he asked.

“It’s good,” she replies, smiling at him while Fenris nods enthusiastically.

“There’s the barest hint of mint, can you taste it?”

“Yeaaaahhh – no, I really can’t, I’m sorry I am just truly awful at this,” Hawke groans as she passes the glass back to him. He was laughing at her and only draped an arm over her shoulder as they continued their circle around the room. He would sip at each glass, inspecting color and smell, telling her all the subtle differences from ones they tasted before. He was so eager to share that Hawke couldn’t help but smile the entire time.

While he discussed different wines with an attendant, Hawke slipped out to the balcony. It was Fenris’s favorite vineyard and it was easy to see why. Long stretches of green, hanging heavy with grapes, with golden dirt separating each row. Trees lined the fields, and so far out in the country there was only the sound of birds, crickets and wind rustling leaves.

He returned to her, informing her of his presence with a gentle hand on her back, both of them leaning over the railings together. “Did you find the _one_?” Hawke asks, rolling her hand dramatically. Fenris chuckles and bumps his forehead against her shoulder.

“I did, even though you weren’t very helpful.”

“I have to say it – I told you so!” Fenris laughs and takes her hand in his, rolling his thumb over the ring on her finger. The ring that he gave her. “Fenris,” she says softly, looking at him, “why don’t we just make this our venue? I mean they have lots of rooms here, it’s beautiful and if you ever disappear during the wedding I know I’ll be able to find you in the wine cellar.”

Fenris guffaws, and hides his grin behind his other hand. “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise.” He can’t hide his grin any longer, as his hand would be in the way of kissing her. She smiles into his kiss, his hand cupping her face. “Does this mean yes?”

“Yes, Hawke, it does,” Fenris tells her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her again.

“Maybe I should just wear a raincoat on the day in case someone spills wine on me.”

“You are _not_ getting married in a raincoat.”

“Rain boots?”

“ _Hawke_.”


	2. Silent Sea (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Boo"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

She had left without a word. Oh there were many words before, some yelled and some whispered, but on the morning that Hawke left, there was only quiet. If Fenris could go back to that day, he would have told her all the things that were screaming in his skull, stabbing in his heart. Perhaps it would have made the endless silence that followed in her wake somewhat bearable. Perhaps it would have stopped him from lying awake every night, staring at the ceiling, telling himself that he should have gone with her to the Inquisition. He had promised to stay by her side and in this he had failed.

He tracked her journey by the letters she sent. Never overly long, always short and fleeting things, her letters were nonetheless a breath of air in the sea of silence in which he was drowning. _Fenris, I’ve landed in Ferelden. I love you, Hawke_. He wished he could have known what she was feeling, being back in the place she once fled. She had lost so much coming to Kirkwall, and he wished he was there to make sure she didn’t lose anything coming back. _Fenris, I’m in Redcliffe. I love you, Hawke_. She had told him of all the green that Lothering had, the sprawling fields, the trees that reached high, the moss in the stone of the castles. Green like his eyes, she had told him. All he wanted was to see the blue of her eyes.

 _Fenris, I’m at Skyhold. Varric says hello. I love you, Hawke._ He had told her not to leave, when they had gotten Varric’s letter. At first she agreed with him. Then he could begin to see it eat away at her, long looks of worry when she thought he wasn’t looking, and nights spent in front of the fire with the letter in her hand. Corypheus – her blood, her problem, her responsibility. He couldn’t convince her that it wasn’t her fight any more. She had to go, after all, the fight wasn’t over yet and she never left things unfinished.

 _Fenris, we’re assaulting Adamant fortress. I miss you. I love you. I am yours, Hawke_. After that letter, she left him in the silence again. A silence that stretched on and on, without as much as a word. In time, he began to fear the worst. Any fitful sleep he got would be interrupted by a panic, shooting up in bed with beads of sweat rolling down his back, the image of Hawke gone and buried scarred in his mind. The silence ate at him, and consumed him. She had left him alone, when she promised she wouldn’t.

On the morning she came back, she didn’t say a word. She stood in the kitchen and smiled, Fenris’s book crashing to the floor when he entered. “Are you a ghost?” He could only whisper that, for it was the only explanation. She stepped towards him quickly, closing the gap, and stood before him silent but still smiling. He reached for her face with shaking hands, hardly daring to believe the warmth he felt, the pulse under his fingers, his Hawke standing where he could reach her.

She presses his hand against her cheek, “boo,” she says and Fenris guffaws. They’re both laughing now, drunk on each other, and he presses his lips to hers. Too long had he gone without her taste, her mouth open and willing to him, hands roving and pressing, ensuring each other that they’re real. It was silent then, but this silence was bearable. This silence was spent with Hawke, the only island in that damnable sea, her heartbeat the only sound he needed.


	3. Raining Here (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "A Sorry Kiss"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

"Fenris? The battle's over, you can open your eyes," Hawke says, collapsing to her knees beside him, moving to cradle his head on her lap, brushing blood soaked locks of hair away from his face. She has her hands on his cheeks, pressing her forehead to his. "Please wake up." No matter how she pleads, his eyes remain closed. There’s a knot in her chest, a pressure that won’t give and she thinks she’s going to be sick. Her staff lies discarded beside his sword, and as she scoops him up into her arms, his head resting against her shoulder, it’s all she can do to hold him.

“Please, please, please,” she whispers, a hand on his cheek, a thumb wiping away the blood that’s around his eye. “I need you Fenris, don’t do this.” She’s only vaguely aware of Isabela standing beside her, more aware of Anders kneeling beside her, hands already glowing in anticipation of the work ahead of him. She regrets every fireball, every bit of lightning cast, all the force magic at her fingertips. She would give it all up just to be able to _heal_.

Her lip quivers and she forces her eyes closed, battling back the tears. She would not cry. She was a Hawke and Hawke’s did not cry. They did not show weakness, they did not… Oh Maker. Her shoulders hunch and she shakes with sobs when his beautiful lashes move to give way to those beautiful green eyes and she’s never felt so relieved in all her life. He raises his free hand, the one that’s not crushed against her, to wipe away the tears that stream down her cheeks.

“You idiot!” She says, “You have to duck when there’s a giant hammer being swung at you. I’m so mad at you.” It’s a tired smile he gives her, but a smile nonetheless.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and that’s all it takes for her to bend down and crush her lips against his. Her teeth click against his in her urgency, and he makes a muffled noise of surprise before returning the kiss in earnest. He’s trapped in her embrace, but it is warm and comforting, and he makes no move to escape it. He’s rather content where he is, his head still swimming, able to feel the rapid beat of Hawke’s heart under his hand, where it rests on her neck.

Her tears make the kiss salty, and there’s the gritty taste of blood underneath that. She pulls away with a gasp, to brush away the remaining tears with her hand. “You scared me. Don’t do that again,” she says.

“I will endeavor to be quicker next time.”

“Yes, do that,” she says. She presses her lips to his forehead then follows it up with another kiss on his lips. It’s gentler this time, with less panic, and he thinks he’s never been so warm. Oh, he knew Hawke cared. She told him every day how much – sometimes more. To see it so openly like this stole his breath away. Her tongue slides against his, wet and warm, and it’s so easy to forget where they are like this.

“Can I finish healing him before you rip each other’s clothes off? Please?” Anders says dryly.

“No, don’t listen to him, you two go right ahead,” Isabela winks.

Hawke chuckles as she pulls away, her thumb ghosting over his lips, his cheeks, making sure every bit of him is still there. She presses her forehead against his, whispering “I am yours.”


	4. Lullaby (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "The way you said 'I love you': Not said to me"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

Hawke is grimacing, her fists winding into the bedsheets, throwing her head back with a strangled yell. "I hate this!" She's screaming, kneeling on the floor, her head resting against the bed. Fenris is rubbing her back, and trying his best not to laugh at her frustration. The fire is their only light in the cabin, and it dances off the sweat on Hawke's forehead.

“You’re almost there,” Fenris says, moving his hands between her legs. She groans as another contraction hits her, her fists shaking, pounding against the bed. “Push, Hawke.”

“I am bloody pushing! You can bear the next one!” He does laugh at that, resting his head in the space between her shoulder blades. “Don’t – don’t laugh at me, you fucking prick,” she says, breathless, but she too eventually starts to laugh. It stops abruptly at the next contraction, laughter dying in her throat and turning into a yell instead.

Her screaming eventually mixes with the screaming of the baby, Fenris pulling it free from between Hawke’s legs. He breaks the umbilical cord with his teeth, cradling the child in his arms. Hawke sinks to the floor, breathing heavily, watching out of the corner of her eye as Fenris moves. He gently wipes away the afterbirth with a wet cloth, before swaddling it in a towel.

Hawke doesn’t miss the way his eyes sparkle, the quivering of his upper lip as he smiles down at the child nestled in his arms. She watches as his head lowers to the child’s, giving it a small halo of white hair. His hands are shaking as he draws one finger across its cheek, and he lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

He sits down next to Hawke, the baby still squalling, but he doesn’t seem to mind. She’s watching as he rolls through an assortment of emotions, from wonder to terror, but the one that stays constant is the look of love in his eyes. This fragile thing he and Hawke have created, something he never thought he’d have.

He presses a kiss to his baby’s forehead. “I love you,” he whispers ever so softly. If Hawke were not right beside him, she wouldn’t have heard it. She wouldn’t have heard the tears behind it, the happiness, and the way his voice broke in the middle. She rests her head on his shoulder, and he frees one hand to wrap around her. He now holds the whole of his family in his arms. He would protect them to his last breath.


	5. Warmth (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”  
> FemHawke x Anders

The clinic is cold and damp, his cot less than kind to his comfort. Hawke’s estate is different. Here Anders is warm, dry and safe, wrapped up in blankets and his lover. A comfort that was indescribable. He brushes hair from Hawke’s face and plants a kiss square on her forehead, and he feels her smile against him. She rises from his arms slightly, propping herself up on her elbows, and presses her lips against his.

“I missed you today,” she tells him and he raises his eyebrows. He stretches, putting his hands underneath his head, smiling at the way she brushes one stubborn strand of hair out of the way of her face.

“Is that so?” He asks her. She tucks hair behind her ear and nods, her fingertips scratching lightly against his chest.

“We ran into darkspawn,” she says, scrunching her face in disgust. He laughs at her expression, the way she crinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue. “The silly thing is that I was completely on top of things during the fight. After though… I maybe fell down a small cliff,” she says slowly biting her bottom lip with her teeth, looking ready for a scolding.

His arms move from his head to her shoulders, rubbing her arms with a frown on his face. “Were you hurt?” Hawke is covered in scars, tiny white lines crisscrossing on her flesh. He knows the stories behind each and every one. From her escape in Lothering to the Arishok’s blade, to even the paper cuts she’s acquired and the times her knife slipped while chopping vegetables.

She tilts her head back and forth, considering for a moment, before telling him, “a little bit.” He flips her immediately, pinning her beneath him, stretching his body out over hers.

“Tell me where.”

“My thigh.” He pulls back the blankets immediately, his hands on the waist of her pants. She’s propped up on her elbows, looking down at him on his knees between her legs. He gives her a look, she gives him a nod, and she raises her ass so that he may tug the pants off of her. He sees the bandage wrapped around her upper thigh immediately, and the blood that stains it. He undoes the knot of the bandage to inspect the cut.

It’s been cleaned, clearly, and carefully tended to. “Fenris bandaged it for me,” Hawke says quietly. Anders frowns, his fingertips glowing blue as he drags them over the cut. Skin seals behind his touch, flesh knitting back together. Even healed, he’s still frowning.

“You should have shown me earlier,” he grumbles. She looks at him for a moment before grinning.

“Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” She laughs, her head falling back to the pillow, her hands on her face. He stretches over her again, the bandage lying abandoned on the floor beside the bed. He nips at her neck, at her jaw, pulling away her hands to look at her.

“I’m not so insecure that I’m jealous of another man laying his hands on you. More frustrated I wasn’t there to help you sooner. That you had to rely on that elf instead,” he tells her quietly. She raises her head off the pillow to give him a quick kiss, before falling back down again with a smile.

“That elf is our friend. And his hands were so soft,” she says mischievously, a finger pulling at his lip. He nuzzles into her, making her laugh, his hands around her waist. He slides down her, to her belly, and sticks his mouth on her, blowing air to create a vulgar noise. She laughs even harder, her hands in his hair, her knees coming up around him.

He looks up at her, and loves the way her cheeks go slightly pink whenever she laughs. She is breathless as she looks at him, and he cannot help but grin back. “I’ll show you soft,” he growls, devouring her in kisses, from her naval to her lips, both of them laughing all the while.


	6. For Those We Loved (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I wish I could hate you."  
> Fenris x Mage!FemHawke

They cower before her. They are running, scrambling away, terrified on hands and knees. She pulls them all towards a central point. They hover in the air slightly, before they are slammed back down. Hawke clenches her fist as she swings them around like dolls, staff twirling in her other hand. She rages like a storm, a looming dark cloud in the distance, and in any other world, he could have been her enemy. Fenris and the others swoop in the kill the remaining bandits, Hawke at their backs.

After, she is laughing, she is smiling, she has her arm over Isabela’s shoulder and she is beautiful. She’s telling Isabela about the spoils of the dead, the things that she had found in their pockets. They compare coin and trinkets, the two magpies that they are. It would be easier if she were cruel without care, malice without purpose, an evil that he could name. Instead, looking at her twists his stomach into knots and fills him with shame. It would be easier if he’d never loved her at all.

He left her bed for a colder one, a solitary one, a loneliness he believed he deserved. They are walking back to Kirkwall, leaving the Wounded Coast, and he lags behind them. Aveline is shaking her head at something the other two are laughing at, but Fenris can only focus on the sway of Hawke’s hips and the brief glimpses he gets of Hawke’s laughing face when she turns. He forces himself to look away, staring at the ground before him, plotting step after step.

The hurt of his leaving was still raw in her, that he could tell. She did not go out of her way to speak to him like she used to. Hawke was the one to draw him into conversations, to include him, to show him all the gifts of friendship. All the privileges of being with Hawke. They were abruptly revoked, and if she did speak to him, she looked everywhere but his face. She laughed more now. He knew it wasn’t true laughter. It was laughter that hid pain, overcompensating for what she perceived as weakness.

They find themselves at the Hanged Man when they return to Kirkwall, like always. He drinks in silence, watching from across the table as she explains to Anders exactly how many targets her lightning hit in one chain. He’s reminding himself regularly that she is a mage and he is supposed to hate mages. All mages want is power, to use people, to be sadistic and merciless. Hawke has changed that. Hawke has changed everything.

They walk towards Hightown together, Hawke hanging off of Sebastian’s arm. Sebastian excuses himself in the direction of the Chantry, leaving Hawke and Fenris alone in the silence. He walks her to her door, he would not leave her defenseless, and he would not leave her side. The moonlight shines on her skin and he wishes he could hate her, wishes he didn’t have to feel this hurt.

She pauses at her door, catching his wrist as he turns. She holds onto that scrap of red, she holds onto him and he cannot move. Her mouth is curved downward, her brow knitted together as she frowns. “I wish I could hate you,” she tells him softly. He says nothing. She disappears inside her estate and leaves him in a world that seems darker than before. He crumples inside his mansion, falling to his hands and knees, becoming sick on the floor. He holds his head in his hands, gauntlets cold and piercing on his skull, and begs the silence for Hawke to never hate him.


	7. Frigid Water (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “So, I found this waterfall…”  
> Fenris x Hawke (early relationship, sees all the markings for the first time.)

Isabela is laughing at Fenris, while he stands covered head to toe in ogre drool. That creature, at least, is dead at his feet, but it’s a small consolation prize. Even Hawke and Merrill are chortling as he touches his tunic in disgust. Hawke is leaning against her staff as she tells him, “There’s a pond nearby to wash.” She points her finger in the direction she knows it to be, and he stomps off past her. She smiles as she watches him go.

Setting up camp is relatively easy, so practiced as they are now. Merrill is sitting cross-legged by the fire, her palms towards the flame, humming as she warms herself. The sun is just beginning to set, sky darkening blue, last vestiges of warm light streaming through the trees. Isabela is lying on the ground, her hands underneath her head, eyes closed and legs crossed. She opens one eye when she hears Hawke stand. “It’s been a while, I’m going to look for Fenris,” Hawke says as she gathers up her staff.

She knows she’s getting closer when she hears the sound of running water, and she freezes when it comes into sight. He’s standing underneath the waterfall, his head bowed and arms outstretched, his back towards her. She’s gripping her staff tightly, her knuckles turning white, and she feels very much like an intruder. “Fenris,” she calls, but he doesn’t move or turn, not hearing her through the roar of the water.

She sits at the edge of the pool, crossing her legs, balancing her staff on her knees. She’s tapping her fingers against the wood, watching the way the muscles on his back move, the bulge of shoulder blades, how he brings one hand to his neck and keeps it there. Most of all, she’s watching the way his markings move on his skin. Markings made of callousness, they belong to Fenris now and Fenris is _wonderful_.

When he turns, he glances at her once and then twice, as if checking to make sure she’s really there. He swims towards her, looking up at her with water dripping from his hair and down his face. “I always imagined it would be Isabela who would come to spy on me,” he tells her and she reddens immediately.

“You’ve been gone a long time, camp is already set up, and I just wanted to make sure everything was alright,” she tells him stubbornly as he chuckles. He raises his hands out of the water, palms up.

“I want to show you something.” She cocks her head at his words, an eyebrow raised in question. “You have to put your staff down.” She does as he asks, placing it beside her. He then raises his hands at her, inviting her touch. Her hands slip into his, warm and dry meeting cold and damp, and he holds onto them tightly. Then he tugs.

She emerges out of the water with a gasp, her robes soaked through and through, the kohl around her eyes dripping downwards. He snorts and laughs, and wipes the streaks away with his thumb, his hands cupping her cheeks. “Did you have to get my robes wet too?” She grumbles, starting to pull the heavy things off of her. She throws them to the side, leaving her standing in just her smallclothes.

He’s chuckling still as he moves away from her, Hawke swimming after him. “It is getting dark Fenris, we won’t be able to see anything soon. We should head back,” she says to him. He shrugs and almost immediately, his markings begin to softly glow. She approaches him cautiously, her hand outstretched. “May I?” She asks, biting at her bottom lip. He studies her for a moment before finally nodding. He tenses slightly when he feels her fingertips ghosting over his markings.

Across his shoulders, his back, she traces all of them, until she is standing in front of him, a hand on his chest. “Do they hurt you? When you do this?” She asks him softly.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs. He didn’t know how to explain that they hurt less around her. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles sadly at him, her hand still on his chest.

“They really do go everywhere, don’t they?” The water below them is glowing as well, lit up by the markings on his legs and feet. “They are…” The night grows dark indeed, as he stops glowing and moves away from her. She follows quickly, wrapping her arms around his waist, her forehead pressing against his back. 

“They are cruel, I know, but you are kind Fenris. You’re more than just your markings,” she says to him. She has her hands splayed on him, holding him in place, and he rests one of his hands over hers. They stay that way for some time, until he can hear her teeth chatter with cold and feel the goose-flesh on her skin. They return to camp both dripping with wet and shivering, planting themselves in front of the fire. She sits very close to him, her shoulder touching his. He smiles, and she smiles back.


	8. Kiss Me (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Kiss Me"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

A servant presents Varric with a folded piece of paper, bowing low before escaping quickly, before Varric can even say thank you. His eyes scan the page as he reads, and he hides a smile with his hands. "When are you leaving for Weisshaupt?" Varric asks, folding the paper again, tucking it into his pocket. Hawke is leaning back in a chair by his desk, her feet propped up on the table. She hums for a moment, tilting her head as she thinks.

"Probably the day after tomorrow? They said they'd have the supplies ready for me then," she tells him, her arms crossed, scratching at her chin.

"Having a hard time leaving your trusty dwarf behind?" She throws back her head and laughs at his grin.

"The hardest part will be writing Fenris to tell him where I've gone," she concedes, dropping her feet from the table and replacing them with her elbows. She rubs her face with her hands and groans. “He’s going to be so mad.”

“Well, then you’ll be pleased to know I took care of the hard part for you.” She immediately slams her hands on the table, eyes wide and horrified.

“You didn’t.”

“I did. Guess who just arrived.” She’s on her feet, swinging her head around and looking, and when she doesn’t see him, she immediately ducks down, kneeling behind the table. She has her fingertips on top of it, with just her eyes peering over as she watches the door.

“He’s going to kill me,” she hisses. “I left by just leaving a note. And then I don’t even send him a letter for this?”

“You didn’t tell him you were leaving?” Varric is watching her panic, laughing all the while. “You only left him a note? You _are_ dead.” She moans, banging her head against the edge of the table, one, twice, three times. As if sensing her terror, the door of the front hall swings violently open, and she ducks down even further, crawling underneath the desk.

His steps are light and swift, and she’s got her knees against her chest, her arms hugging them, trying to stay as quiet as possible. “Varric.” She almost moans at the sound of it. His voice is a warm drink on a cold day, something that heats her bones and she almost wants to cry over how much she’s missed him.

“Broody.”

“Would you give us a moment?”

“Have fun.” She hears the shuffling of papers before she sees Varric’s form retreating. His fingers are tapping the top of the table for a few moments, before he finally squats down. His nose and ears are pink from the cold, his hair longer and wilder, and he’s looking at her with one eyebrow raised. The words burst out of her in a rush.

“I swear I can explain Fenris, I know I left in a really shitty way, but you didn’t know that there was corrupted lyrium, so much red lyrium Fenris, and I wasn’t sure what would happen with your markings and I knew you’d want to come with me when I left and I just wanted to protect you and –”

“Hawke,” he rasps, suddenly hoarse at the sight of her, “shut up and kiss me.” He crawls forward towards her, and she opens her arms to him. He’s stretched out on top of her, and her arms are shaking as she winds her hands into his tunic. He has one hand on her face, the other bent and propping him up over her, his lips devouring hers. To walk into the great hall was to see two pair of legs underneath Varric’s desk, accompanied by whispering and laughter, murmured affirmations of affection, kisses chasing every word.


	9. Tuesdays (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

No matter what’s happened, no matter what fight, what argument, what annoyance, it is always a good day when Hawke returns to find Fenris in her bed. He’s lying on his stomach, his hands underneath the pillow, with white locks of hair drifting across his forehead. She brushes them gently out of the way, and his eyes slowly open. They blink a few times before centering on her, pulling away from the world of sleep. She smiles and presses a kiss to his forehead as he begins to turn over.

He stretches his arms out wide, as an invitation. She collapses into the bed and into him with a contented sigh, nestling herself into the crook of his arm. “Long day?” He asks her, voice still hoarse from sleep.

“Better now,” she mumbles into his chest, draping an arm around him and holding him close.

“Tell me.”

“Oh, had to kill a few bandits who were trying to kill me and my cousin. Did I mention I had a cousin? Yeah, that’s because I didn’t know either.” He chuckles at the annoyance in her tone, his fingers brushing through her hair.

“Sounds like you had fun.”

“I was having more fun before I got kicked in the bloody ribs.” He pulls at the belt of her robes, hands at her collar, pulling it over her shoulder and down. Sure enough, it’s already starting to bruise, an angry red and purple mark on her side. He makes a grunt of disapproval, and soon enough he’s disrobing her fully, inspecting every inch of her skin. He finds three more bruises, on her arm, her thigh and lower back. The same grunt follows every discovery.

“You need to be more careful,” he grumbles, and she grins and shrugs her arms.

“I swear I was!”

“You’re lucky they’re just bruises. This time.”

“I know, I know.” They trail off into silence, Fenris kneeling on the bed beside her, a hand still on her hip. After a few minutes, he pulls at her, and she does as his touches instruct. She’s now the one lying on her stomach, hands underneath the pillow, looking at him from the corner of her eye. She watches as he moves, sitting over her, and he has a fingertip running down every bump of her spine.

“What are you doing?” She asks him softly.

“Do you… well, I mean, I could give you a massage? If you’d like,” he says hesitantly, his broad hands already at the sides of her back, and she is able to feel every callus on his hands, made by years of swordplay. They are familiar, gentle, things to her, light touches on her skin and she closes her eyes and nods. He gets to work immediately, kneading into her.

He finds every ache, every hurt, and works it out of her with his touch. They spend long moments in silence, the only sound being the crackling of the fire, and the occasional groan of appreciation from Hawke. “You’re good at this,” she says quietly.

“Mmm.”

“I could massage you after, if you want.”

“You’ve already tried, and you are _terrible_ at it, remember?”

“Hey… at least I tried!” She pushes herself over, twisting her body beneath him until she can face him, a grin on her lips. She gives him a light punch to the chest with one hand, and puts the other at the back of his neck. She pulls him down to her, planting a kiss, before tackling him down into the bed, switching their positions. She pins his wrists beside his head and smiles.

“You could teach me,” she tells him. “We have time.”


	10. Clouds (Hawke & Varric)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “You’re the only one I trust to do this.”   
> Hawke and Varric

Hawke has been sleeping all night and all day. Varric checks on her occasionally, curled up in his bed, but she never moves when he enters. He’s loathe to wake her. She’s been sequestered in his room, lost, ever since they returned from the Deep Roads. She had told Bethany to stay behind for her own safety, but then Hawke had come back just in time to see her taken to the Circle. In time to have her mother blame her. So she had left, knocking on Varric’s door, voice breaking as she asked to stay with him.

He wakes her with a hand on her shoulder, shaking gently. She opens her eyes wearily, blinking as she tries to pull herself from sleep. “Varric,” she says, voice scratchy from sleep.

“You need to eat something,” he tells her softly. She rises slowly, pulling the covers back, swinging her feet down to the floor. She sits at the edge of the bed, head bowed, staring at the floorboards. She joins him at his table after a few slow and plodding steps, slumping into a chair. Varric pushes a plate of food at her, which she only stares at.

“Hawke. Eat something,” he pushes because if he doesn’t, he worries she’ll allow herself nothing, and he _needs_ to put the fire back inside of her. She pulls apart bread and chicken, small portions and smaller bites, and he stays by her side until she finishes all of it. She has her hands on the table, flanking the now empty plate, and she’s staring at it blankly.

He leans forward to put a hand on her wrist. “Hawke. Tell me what I can do.” Her bottom lip wobbles at the sight of it, and she rubs her brow with her other hand.

“Help me storm the gallows?”

“I think you’ll find that idea will get a lot of traction with Blondie. What can _I_ do, Hawke?” She slips from the chair, down to her knees in front of Varric. Her hands are on his knees as she looks up at him, pleading, dark circles under eyes.

“Go to Bethany, tell her I’m sorry, tell her I’ll find a way to help her, tell her I’ll take care of mother, tell her I’m so, so, sorry, find the words to tell her I care, please Varric, you’re the only I trust to do this right,” Hawke says, her head dropping to Varric’s lap, her hands shaking as they wind into anything she can find, still whispering over and over again _sorry, sorry, sorry_.

He’s unsure of what do at first, but soon he’s petting her head, gentle strokes of comfort, his other hand on her shoulder. “I’ll go to her, and I’ll tell her,” he says, “but Hawke, it’s not your fault.” He can feel her tense up at that, her whispered words fading away. “It’s not your fault,” he tells her again. “Everything’s going to be alright.”


	11. Worrisome (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I'm Pregnant."  
> Anders x FemHawke

“You worry too much,” Hawke says, bending over to wrap her arms around him, leaning her head against his. Anders puts the quill down onto the desk and rubs his eyes, one hand resting on her arm.

“I need to. Who knows how many Templars followed us out of Kirkwall? I need to write to the other Circles, to the Wardens, find what –”

“Anders. You are worrying too much. We have friends in the right places. We’re safe. Come to bed,” she says, pulling him away from the desk, his hands in hers as she walks backwards with a smile on her face. He smiles back, allowing himself to be guided by her. She pushes him down onto the bed and straddles him, tucking stray strands of blonde hair behind his ears. He closes his eyes as her hand brushes one of his cheeks, Hawke bending down to press a kiss to the other.

“You need to focus on something else,” she says. He smiles, then breathes out deeply, sighing as he turns away from her. With one finger on his chin, she pulls him back to look at her. She is something to focus on. All other thoughts are wiped away while he looks at her, raising his hands to cup her face. She closes her eyes and leans into his touch, her hands on top of his.

When she opens her eyes again, those big blue beauties, she’s biting her bottom lip. She moves to lie beside him, on her side, one hand on his chest. “I need to tell you something. You have to promise me something first,” she says.

“Anything.” He would give her the world if she asked for it.

“Promise me that you’ll try to stop worrying so much. I need you Anders. I need you here with me, not lost in that head of yours,” she says, tapping at his forehead. He takes her hand in his, to stop the tapping, and he holds it quietly.

“I will try. I promise.” She looks at him seriously for a moment, studying him, before she finally nods.

“Anders, I’m pregnant.” His spine goes stiff.

“Are you sure?”

“Have you forgotten you can check for yourself?” Reminded, his hands glow slightly, traveling down to her navel. The glow moves from his hands into her, and he makes a small strangled noise of disbelief.

“I never thought – being a Warden – I always – how is this possible?”

“Who cares, if we’re happy? You are happy right?” She has her hand on his cheek again, smiling at him, her thumb rubbing small circles over his cheekbone.

“Yes,” he says, his voice breaking slightly, “yes, yes, yes.” She pulls him to her chest, holding him there with fingers threading through his hair, pressing kisses to the top of his skull. They wind into each other, legs draped together, his arms around her, and he’s laughing and he can’t stop and she’s laughing too because oh _Maker_ it’s good to hear it from him again.

“We should, ah, go into town, find a –”

“No worrying! After all, I have the best healer in Thedas looking after me,” she says while she laughs, and he holds her that much tighter. They don’t speak of Templars for weeks after that. Even then, it’s only in passing. Every morning when he wakes, he greets Hawke with a kiss and a hand on her growing belly, and a smile on his face.


	12. Comptine d'Un Autre Été (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I'm Pregnant"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

Hawke has her head on his lap, looking up at him thoughtfully while he reads. She’s sprawled on the couch, one leg hanging over the back, the other planted on the floor, and he has a hand on her chest as if keeping her in place. Fenris is able to turn the pages of his book with one hand, a practiced expert, his eyes scanning the page and absorbing every word. She hides a smile behind a hand, and his eyes flick down to her at the movement. He raises his eyebrows in a silent question at her smile.

“You look good from this angle. Just really… comforting.” Somehow his eyebrows manage to rise even higher at her words, until he sighs and shakes his head, accepting the fact that there are some things that Hawke says that he will never understand. She laughs and sits up, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Really Fenris, you’re excellent at holding people in your arms.” He sighs and puts his book down on his knee, resting it so that he does not lose his spot.

“Hawke, what are you talking about?” He asks, turning to her, while she looks up from his shoulder, humming with delight, a mischievous smile on her face.

“I don’t know if I should tell you,” she says, smile breaking into a grin. “What do I get if I tell you?”

“My eternal love and affection,” he deadpans.

“Awe, I already have that.”

“The longer you wait to tell me, the more it slips away.” She barks out laughter at that, Fenris joining in with a chuckle.

“Fine, fine,” she concedes, pressing her forehead against his. “I’m pregnant.” The laughter stops immediately, Fenris’s mouth opening slightly. He drops to his knees in front of her, the book falling from its carefully selected position, parchment crumpling against the floor and his spot is decidedly lost.

He has his hands on her hips dragging her forward so that he may wrap his arms around her, his head against her belly. She smiles, a hand on his head and one on his shoulder, asking, “I hope this means you’re happy.” He looks up at her, a hand reaching for her face, devouring her lips in a hasty kiss.

“Hawke,” he says, “ _Hawke_.” He seems to have lost all other words as he looks at her, rising to his feet, pulling her along with him. The laughter in him is back as he slips his hands underneath her arms, and picks her up, spinning her around him in the air. “Hawke,” he says once she’s back on two feet, both breathless and smiling, cupping her face in his hands. He presses another urgent kiss to her lips, and again, and again.


	13. World Spins Madly On (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Have you lost your damn mind?!"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

She’s shoving things angrily into her bag, whatever she thinks she needs, whatever she can get her hands on. She’s moving across their room with the frown firmly planted on her face, determinately not looking at him look at her. His eyes follow her as she moves, as she folds a shirt and shoves it in with the rest, as she goes to get more. His arms are crossed, leaning against the wall, a scowl on his face as well. “You shouldn’t be doing this,” he says.

“I thought you’d understand.”

“I do, but what I don’t understand is why you’re insisting on leaving me behind.”

“Have you lost your damn mind? You know exactly why you can’t come. Red _fucking_ lyrium Fenris,” she says, whirling to finally face him.

“I would be careful.”

“Ha! You don’t – I can’t – if something happened to you Fen,” she says, shaking her head and her hands, before sighing, rubbing at her temples. “You don’t understand – if I lost you, I don’t know how I’d be able to go on.” He steps forward quickly, pulling her hands away from her face.

“You are going somewhere you say I can’t follow and you don’t think I have been worrying about the same thing? I should be by your side, always, like we promised. Or have all our promises been for nothing?” He asks her this hotly, demanding an answer from her.

“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare.”

“Then let me come with you.”

“No.” He lets go of her and rakes his hand through his hair, turning away from her.

“You say Varric needs you, but not for what. You say you must go to him, but you will not tell me where.”

“I know you’ll follow if I do.”

“If you leave, I will find you, no matter what it takes,” he says, turning back to her.

“Fine.”

“You should – wait, what?” He’s taken aback, the words dying in his mouth. She has her arms crossed and her foot is tapping against the floor, her mouth set in a grim line.

“Give me two weeks. I’ll write to you, and I’ll tell you everything. Don’t leave before then,” she says, still frowning. He approaches her slowly, his hands moving up her arms, gently squeezing at her shoulders, before moving back down to take her hands in his. He sighs, pressing his forehead against hers, white hair mixing with black.

“I will wait. Only if you promise me that you will return to me, Hawke.”

“I thought our promises were for nothing.”

“ _Hawke_.”

“I promise.”


	14. Around the Fire (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Wanna Dance?"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

He wakes early, as he is prone to do. It is ingrained in him to rise with the sun, no matter where he is. Today Fenris wakes in their camp by Sundermount, when the sun is only just beginning to crack over the horizon. Hawke is sitting, leaning against a tree, her arms and legs crossed, and her eyes closed. He walks to her side, standing above her and tells her, "the point of being on watch is to be awake.” Immediately, an eye snaps open to look at him.

“Not asleep, just resting my eyes,” she says with a huff. Closing her eye once again, she shuffles her position, dismissing him with a grunt. He chuckles and settles down beside her, one knee up to rest his arm upon. He is contented, just to be beside Hawke. It is quiet, with only the early sounds of birds, the distant echo of crickets.

“I expected more dancing,” she says suddenly. Fenris turns to her, amused.

"Excuse me?” She turns to him, both eyes wide open, her hand waving at the distance.

“Yeah! You know how many stories I was told about elves dancing in the moonlight? We’re right by a Dalish camp and nothing. Where are my dancing elves Fenris? I need my dancing elves!” He chuckles, covering his hand with his mouth. She looks pleased that he’s laughing, a grin appearing on her face. He rises to his feet, stretching slightly, before extending a hand to her.

“Let’s dance then, Hawke,” he says. She’s suddenly hesitant, her grin faltering, and the hand she places in his is filled with worry.

“I don’t know how,” she says as he helps her to her feet. He hums an acknowledgement of her statement but that doesn’t stop him from drawing her into his arms. She has a frown, a worried bite of her lip, but she does as he directs and places a hand on his shoulder. He places a hand around her waist, keeping her close.

“Don’t look down,” he says as her eyes are firmly planted on her feet, “look at me.” Blue eyes meet green and he gives her a reassuring smile as he begins to move. His steps are light and quick while hers are stuttered and unsure. “At me, Hawke.” Another reminder as her eyes frequently flick downwards.

“I’m going to step on your feet!” She complains. He shakes his head and knocks his forehead gently against hers.

“Allow me to guide you and you won’t hurt me,” he tells her, pressing his hand even tighter against the small of her back. He leads her in the steps slowly, back and forth, turning slightly, all the while holding her hand tightly in his.

“If you teach me, maybe I’ll start accepting all those invitations to celebrate the ‘Champion’ and drag you with me," she says as she begins to ease into the steps.

“Please don’t,” he says weakly. She chuckles at his reply, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. They move together for a few moments more, Fenris’s fingertips gently pressing her in the direction she needs to go. She steps closer, her hand leaving his and sliding up his arm, until her hands meet behind his head. She smiles up at him, and presses a kiss to his lips, a hand winding into his hair. They sway together closely in silence, and not once does Hawke step on his toes.

“There are so many things I still don’t know about you, like your secret dancing talent,” she tells him softly.

“It’s an innate skill all elves are born with, along with frolicking,” he says to her quite seriously. She barks out quick bursts of laughter in disbelief. He joins her in laughter, his arms still wrapped around her waist. He swallows up her laughter in hungry kisses, hands roving over her hips and back.

“I can think of another few skills you have,” she says slyly, fingertips tracing down from the tip of his ear to his jaw, settling on his chin where she holds him so she can kiss him again.

“This is a wonderful thing to wake up to, praise Andraste,” Isabela says, lying on her side, propped up on an elbow. Merrill is sitting up next to her, legs crossed and grin wide, with her hands on gleeful cheeks. Hawke rolls her eyes and begins to pull away, but Fenris keeps a hold on her waist. He moves one hand down to her thigh and lifts it, dipping her over in a sweeping kiss. Isabela and Merrill whoop and cheer, while Hawke is breathless with delighted laughter.


	15. Privacy (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Ignore me, I didn't see anything"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

The estate is _theirs_. It has been for years. They roam its halls wild and free, able to be themselves utterly. Bodahn and Sandal had left for Orlais some time ago, and Carver’s visits were few and far in between. Fenris’s own mansion sits empty and unused. They had never officially confirmed that he had moved in. He simply stayed one day, choosing to sleep in Hawke’s bed rather than his own. It was their bed now, their room, theirs, theirs, and theirs.

They roam barefoot, doing whatever pleases them best in the moment. Fenris likes to read in the sitting room, stretched out on the sofa, pillows under his head and flipping pages lazily. Hawke enjoys the warmth of the garden, the feeling of grass between her toes and how her magic makes the flowers bloom brighter than ever.

When they cross paths, they clash. It always starts with the barest of touches, but soon they are fighting to embrace the whole of one another. Today they battle in the foyer, at the desk by the fire. Hawke had been leaving the kitchen. Fenris had been going towards it. They meet in the middle, pulling and pushing at each other.

The robe she wears is easy to remove. The knot comes loose with a tug of Fenris’s fingers. She presents her neck to him and he takes the bait. He sucks and nibbles at it, leaving fresh marks above older ones. He backs her towards the desk, the robe slipping off her shoulders. He lifts her, sits her upon it, and he moves between her legs, rolling a nipple between his fingers.

Her own hands find the laces of his breeches, and he groans when she frees his hard length. She wraps her hands around his neck, over his shoulders, slipping a hand down his shirt to feel his muscles move as he aligns himself with her entrance. He fills her in one quick thrust, all the way to the hilt. Her hands flutter on his skin, leaving his shirt to move downwards.

She pulls at his breeches, so that she may feel skin against skin as she clutches at his ass. She pulls him towards him, encouraging every bit of movement as he holds onto her thigh and groans into her shoulder. It’s easy to lose themselves. Easy to only feel each other, hear only each other. Easy to not hear the sound of a key slipping into a lock, and the front door opening.

“Did you get my letters? I can only stay for a – oh for the love of – Maker’s breath, I didn’t see anything,” Carver yelps, clapping his hands to his face and backing out the door as quickly as he entered. They do hear the door slamming behind him this time. Hawke throws back her head and laughs, and while Fenris’s cheeks are twinged red with embarrassment, he soon joins her.


	16. Movie Night (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Meeting at a theatre"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

"This is terrible," Hawke furiously whispers as she turns to Carver.

"Well, I happen to enjoy it. If you don't like it, go sit somewhere else. I don't want to hear you complain the entire time," Carver gruffly tells her, before claiming the popcorn. She rolls her eyes and stands, scanning the dark theatre for an empty seat. It's packed and she can only see one, a few rows back. She goes to it without hesitation, her drink in hand.

On one side of her are two older folks, while the guy on the other side is young and very quiet. He's wearing a beanie, even in the warm theatre, and glances at her only briefly when she sits down. She takes a sip from her drink before settling it into the cup holder. She leans her face against a fist, and can't help the little grunts of displeasure that escape her whenever something terrible or cheesy happens.

It takes three grunts and two sighs for the beanie guy to turn to her. "You hate it too?" She glances up, delighted she has someone to share her woes with.

"It's terrible. I knew it would be terrible but I came because my brother's too embarrassed to come by himself."

"I had more hope for it, myself. I thought there would be a chance it could be good. I was mistaken," he says to her dryly.

"Ugh, the CGI is awful."

"The protagonist has a very thin motivation."

"The antagonist hits all the clichés."

"The writing is cringe worthy, to say the least."

They banter back and forth, whispering furiously the entire time. At some point, the person on the other side of Hawke rises, but she's too busy talking to notice. When he comes back, he brings an attendant with him. The attendant gets Hawke's attention, and the guy, telling him that "there's been a complaint and I'm going to have to ask you both to leave." It's almost a blessing.

In the brightness of the lobby, she can see that his beanie hides white hair. He has his hands stuffed into his pockets, twisting tattoos rising up from the collar of his sweater. Maker’s breath he is _attractive_. Hawke had found it so easy talking to him in the din of the theatre, but now she struggles for words. He raises a hand to scratch at the back of the neck.

“That’s twenty bucks wasted,” he grunts while she chuckles.

“I could think of a better use of our money. How do you feel about pizza?”

“I love it.” She grins at his reply and stretches out her hand.

“I’m Hawke.” His handshake is firm but his hands soft, and he smiles slightly at her greeting.

“Fenris.”


	17. Out of the Cold (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "You knocked on my door at 1 am to cuddle?"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

She looks thoroughly unimpressed. It’s late, admittedly, and they did spend the day wandering the Wounded Coast killing bandits. She must be exhausted. _He_ is exhausted. Hawke’s robe is disheveled, hanging off one shoulder, one hand still on the doorknob and the other on the frame, and she’s trying to blink the sleep from her eyes. “Is someone dead?” She asks, “Because if someone’s not dead or dying, I have no idea why you’re here.” He shuffles his feet, suddenly ashamed. He shouldn’t be here.

“Apologies Hawke,” he says gruffly, “I should not have – apologies.” He turns, ready to leave, but she grabs him by the wrist. The wrist she marked with red.

“Fenris,” she says softly. He stills instantly at her touch. “Tell me.” As always, he can never deny her.

“It’s foolish – I merely, ah, wished for company.” The grip she has on his wrist tightens. It’s been weeks since Hadriana’s death and they both still wear their hurt plainly. This was cruel. He was cruel. “Hawke, I can – ”

“Fenris. Fenris, it’s not foolish. Come inside,” she says it so quietly, almost a whisper. She shifts so that her hand is in his, their fingers entwined. She closes the door behind him and leads him up the stairs. She only lets go when she slides into one side of the bed. She gestures to him to take the other.

He lays down stiffly, at the edge of the bed, not wishing to intrude on her space. He lies on his side, facing the wall, staring into the darkness. He can hear her sigh, and feels the lightest touch of fingertips on his back. “I’d like to think we’re both not made of glass. I won’t break if you’re near me,” she tells him. She tugs at his tunic, encouraging him to roll over to her. 

She slips one hand underneath his neck, curling it upwards to wind into his hair. She tucks his head under her chin, his face pressed against her chest. Her other hand snakes over him, splaying out on his back and holding him close. Their legs naturally wrap together, one over the other, over the other. He’s close enough to hear her heartbeat. He hopes she doesn’t feel how fast his is beating.

“You can always come to me Fenris. You can always knock on my door. Even just to cuddle,” she says quietly, her fingertips scratching lightly at his head. She plants a kiss on his forehead and he holds her that much tighter. He sighs contently when he closes his eyes. He feels calmer now, and whatever memory drove him to her door is swept away.

He wakes before her. He always wakes with the dawn. They are still wrapped up in each other and he feels unworthy of the privilege. He moves himself carefully, quietly, untangling himself from her touch. He sits on the edge of the bed and moves to rise. A tug on his tunic stops him. “Stay,” she says quietly. Who was he to deny her? 

She nestles herself into the crook of his arm and is back asleep in seconds. For the first time that he can remember, Fenris does not rise with the sun. He stays in bed, he sleeps past noon, and he steals precious moments alone with Hawke.


	18. Near Light (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I just want you to be happy"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

The world has been darker lately, the streets more hostile, and people hateful. Or, at least, it seems that way to him. He can’t decide if it’s always been this way and he never noticed, or if it was Hawke’s absence which colored his current view. The others have tried, and failed, to rouse Hawke from the fog in which she currently exists. The estate is quiet without Leandra. She always greeted him kindly. Now there is only silence.

Aveline was firm, Anders was kind, Varric was charming, Merrill was… Merrill. Isabela tried the allure of alcohol, Sebastian the comfort of the Maker. Now they all turned to him and asked him to be cruel. After all, he’s the one who’s always hurt her the most. Her room is dark and cold, fire unlit and curtains drawn. She is huddled under the blankets of her bed, and does not move when he opens the door.

He pulls back the curtains, allowing the sunlight to stream in. He hears her sigh. “Go away Fenris.” Usually he listens to every word, every request, and every command. Today he does not. He throws logs into the fireplace and lights it, putting some semblance of warmth into the room. She pulls the blankets around her tighter.

“It is time to get up Hawke,” he tells her. He receives only an angry grunt in return. He approaches the bed, sees the lump that is Hawke and scoops her up into his arms, blankets and all.

“What – what are you doing? Put me down, put me down right now!” She’s struggling, tangled up in the blankets and thrown over his shoulder. She kicks her legs, pounds her fists at his back, but he does not let go. He carries her to her bathroom, where he’s had a bath drawn for her. The water is warm and visibly steaming. He dumps her in the tub, blankets and all.

She emerges out of the water gasping and furious, glaring at him from under wet locks. Her hands grip the side of the tub, knuckles white with fury. The blankets float around her, wet and drowning, water sloshing over the sides. She moves to rise, but Fenris forces her to sit with hands on her shoulders. “You’re dirty, and you smell,” he tells her curtly.

“Thanks for letting me know,” she fires back. She’s still struggling to stand, but Fenris keeps her firmly planted. She gives up after a few minutes, but the glare has not left her. He fishes out the blanket, depositing it into a wet heap, and undoes the clasp of her robe gently. She raises her arms and allows him to remove it. It joins the blanket.

She hugs her knees to her chest, and rests her chin upon them. He kneels down beside the tub and gets to work. He rubs oils in her hair, scratching at her scalp lightly, and she closes her eyes at the feeling. He rubs soap into her skin, and cups water in his hands to wash it away. She is distinctly unhelpful and resistant the entire time, forcing him to pull at her limbs to make any progress.

He turns to fetch a towel, and when he looks back, she is standing. She is dripping wet, water pouring from her hair, down her face, over the rest of her. “What do you want?” She asks this of him and demands an answer. He gives her none. Instead he throws the towel over her head and helps her out of the tub. She crosses her arms and pouts as he dries her.

He presents her with clean clothes, something she looks at suspiciously. “No,” she says, guessing at his intentions.

“You need to eat. You need to leave the estate. We’ll do both,” he says, pushing the clothes towards her again. She turns her head like a toddler being presented food it doesn’t like. He sighs at this and begins to dress her himself. In this, at least, she fights him less. While her limbs are stiff, they still move for him, allowing him to put on shirt and pants, and slip shoes onto her feet.

Her hair is still damp when they leave the estate. She squints at the brightness of the sun, and shrinks behind him. He takes her hand in his, winding their fingers together. She accepts this quietly. He takes her to a small tavern he knows of, one where she will see no one she recognizes. The food is no great delicacy, but it’s edible, and Hawke hasn’t been eating.

She picks at her food, fork loose in her hand, staring blankly at her chicken. He is relieved when she slowly starts to put it in her mouth, worried he may have had to feed her himself. When they are finished and he puts coin on the table to pay, she narrows her eyes and asks him again, “what do you want?” Her only answer is empty air yet again.

He does not allow her to return to the estate right away, although she clearly wants to. His hand finds hers again, and he keeps a tight hold on her as they walk aimlessly. He walks her through Hightown, Lowtown, Darktown, all the way to the docks and the edges of the city. They walk in circles and they walk in silence.

When he finally allows them to make their way back to the estate, she’s still frowning. They stand in the foyer, her hand still in his. “What do you want?” Her tone is filled with fury and desperation. He accepts her anger, accepts her fire. It is better than the emptiness of the past few days. He wants to tell her that all he wants is to see her smile again. Brighter than the sun, sweeter than any pastry, and a reassurance that everything is alright. He wants her to be happy again. He doesn’t know if he’s the person who can give her that.

“Tomorrow. Bandits on the Wounded Coast. I will be here early. Be ready,” is what he tells her instead. His hand slips from hers and already the world is cooler. He walks home, alone, to sit in a mansion filled with silence, darkness, and cold. The fire stays unlit, the curtains drawn. He sinks into his bed and huddles under the blankets.


	19. Dinner Date (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “Trying to go down on the other, under the table, during dinner.”  
> Fenris x FemHawke

“We’re supposed to be eating dinner,” she tells him.

“I am,” he says, cocking his head at her. He nips at the soft flesh of her inner thigh, the robe she wears pushed up to her waist. She leans her head back, mouth open, winding her hand into his hair. His hands are on her thighs, moving agonizingly slowly to where she desperately wants them to be. He breathes hot air onto sensitive flesh, and she groans instantly.

“You are the worst,” Hawke sighs. Their dinner is cold on the table, and Fenris had gotten out of his chair so quickly that it lies abandoned on its side. He chuckles as he runs his hands up and down her legs, looking up at her as he kisses her knee. Her face is flushed, eyes half-lidded, and the hand that isn’t in his hair is bent against the arm rest so that she may lean her head against it. One foot is planted firmly on the ground. Her other leg is over his shoulder.

He licks his lips at the sight of her, diving back between her legs, hot breath running over her equally hot cunt. Her back arches at the sensation, hand shaking in his hair. He hovers over those lips of hers, savoring the sight of her need. Her hips buck slightly, a silent plea. He concedes, and lightly runs his tongue over that sensitive nub of flesh. She moans, and the leg over his shoulder presses hard against him, encouraging him closer.

He forces himself to go slowly, lapping at her sweet wetness. His tongue splits her folds and teases at her entrance. She gasps at that, the gentle pressure, and her grip on him is insistent, her hips rolling constantly to fuck his mouth. Fenris locks his lips over her clit before he slips a finger inside of her. She cries out at the penetration, calling his name. He growls at her plea, a rumble in his throat, and adds a second finger to her.

Her heel is digging into his back, pushing and wanting. He pumps inside of her slowly, twisting his fingers to find that spot that makes her breath stutter. His cock is straining against his breeches, twitching at every gasp and every moan she makes. She has both hands on his head now, one rubbing at the tip of his ear. She knows exactly what that does to him.

“Ah, Maker Fenris, fuck me.” He breaks away from her then, and she makes a strangled noise at the sudden loss. He wipes the wet on his mouth away with a swipe of his arm.

“Is that an order?” He asks, enjoying the sight of her dripping, red and aching for him. She nods slowly and he grins wickedly and pulls her down to the floor with him.


	20. Changing (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Pinning the other against a wall."  
> Fenris x FemHawke

“You don’t need to leave, Fenris.” The touch on his arm is light, warm, and wholly unexpected. Today has been filled by bad memories, worse people and ugly feelings. He thinks himself back in Tevinter, where he was touched often and harshly and that only serves to make him mad. His markings flare without thought, his hands grabbing roughly at the arms of those who dared touch him, slamming them against the wall, and – and it is Hawke.

He knows Anders is right, knows he is a beast and he is horrified with himself as he starts to pull away. Hawke doesn’t hesitate in reaching for him. The kiss comes a surprise. A welcome surprise. He’s astonished at her want, at the fact that she wants him. He catches one of her lips in his, pulling on it gently, and she has her hands on him, pushing him against the wall.

He does not land softly, but that doesn’t deter either of them. She pins him there with her weight, her body tight against his, arms braced against the wall beside his head. His own hands are free to roam over her waist but it is not enough. He fumbles with his gauntlet’s clasps behind her back, until they fall to the floor with a heavy clunk. That gives him more freedom to feel. He knows his hands aren’t soft. They’re calloused by years of swordplay, but Hawke doesn’t seem to mind when he brushes a thumb across her cheekbones.

His other hand travels downwards, to cup her ass, and pulls her even closer to him. His hard length is trapped between them, straining up against his trousers and he knows she can feel it. Her tongue is wet and warm inside his mouth, and it is chased by a moan when he drops a hand to her breast. It’s not enough, it’s not enough, and he flips her against the wall, his leg pressing between her thighs and wants more, more, more.

His hands fumble with the knot of her robes while she is working at undoing the clasps of his breastplate. It falls, abandoned, along with his gauntlets. He’s able to pull her robe apart, baring her breasts to him and when he pulls away, she breathes with a gasp. He drops his now free mouth to a nipple, and one of her hands winds into his hair. “Ah! Maker, Fenris.” Yes. His mouth devours hers again, his hands grasping the underside of her thighs.

He lifts her as though she is weightless, and she wraps her legs around him as he presses into her. She can feel him so close, separated by cloth. She writhes against him, and he’s dropping to his knees, her back still pressed against the wall. She’s able to straddle him this way, her hands on his shoulders as she rocks her hips over him, earning her a groan from him.

He palms a breast in his hand, rolling a nipple between his fingers and that only makes her grind against him harder. He traces kisses on her mouth, her cheeks, her jaw, closing his mouth over her neck and feeling the rumble of her moan. They hear a door click somewhere in the house and still themselves instantly. “Bedroom?” She whispers.

“Bedroom,” he says and seals their agreement with a kiss.


	21. Family Matters (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "One of the Hawke siblings threatens Fenris."  
> Fenris x FemHawke

“If you hurt her, I’ll shove those spiky gauntlets of yours up your ass.” Fenris chokes into his drink. He comes up coughing, pounding a fist to his chest.

“Excuse me?” He asks this hoarsely, to an unconcerned Carver. It was rare that Carver ever got permission to leave the Gallows. When he did, it was straight to the Hanged Man immediately, to drink until they couldn’t stand. The others were yelling, throwing down cards and coin, winners screaming bloody victory, losers sulking into their ale. Somehow, Sebastian had swept a win out from under Isabela, and Hawke had her head thrown back viciously laughing at Isabela’s disbelief.

“We may not get along, but she is my sister, and if you hurt her, I’ll hurt you right back,” Carver says, sipping at his drink. Fenris is by no means scared of the young pup, but Carver did make an authoritative figure in his Templar uniform.

“Hawke is more than capable of defending herself,” Fenris huffs.

“You weren’t there to see her break. What you did three years ago. That changed her. It still follows her.” It’s hard to see the change. If you’re not looking, you don’t see it at all. The way her laughter dies just a little before everyone else’s. Wanting to watch, rather than participate. She tends to her flock even more carefully than before. Privately, Fenris sees the change keenly. He waits in bed for her to rise, now. The one time he got up to make breakfast for her, she had come flying down in a panic, scared that he had left her once again.

“I am… aware,” Fenris says quietly as he grips at the mug.

“So, if you hurt her again, I’ll make sure you leave Kirkwall and never come back.” On his own, Carver would not be able to come close to him. With his friends in the Templars? More problematic. Not that he was seriously considering that ever being a possibility.

“I would never – she is, to me, the most – _important_ – Hawke is, I mean – I am in –”

“Alright, alright, don’t hurt yourself,” Carver’s slap to his back is no doubt meant to be friendly and jovial, but it nearly launches Fenris right out of his seat. “We all know how you feel about her. You’re shit at hiding it,” Carver says, still laughing at Fenris’s expression. Fenris is still gripping his mug, somehow gripping it tighter, and looking over at Hawke. She’s chuckling, shuffling a deck of cards in her hands, face flushed with happiness and the warm embrace of alcohol. Always, always, she is so _beautiful_ and Fenris feels his own face heat up. He hears another chuckle from Carver.

“I told you. Shit at hiding it,” he says, downing the rest of his drink. He flags down the waitress, ordering more and more from both himself and Fenris, forcing the elf to drink. Fenris knows his limits, knows when to stop. Today, he does not. He matches Carver drink for drink, feeling the need to prove… something? As if drinking with him will show that he is worthy of Hawke.

Later, Hawke has her arm around his waist, Carver’s arm as well, and the Hawke siblings are dragging him back to Hightown. Halfway there he pukes, then turns to Hawke saying fiercely, “I am _yours_ ,” and promptly proceeds to pass out. Carver roars with laughter as he throws the elf over his shoulder, Hawke completely mystified as to how Carver ever managed to convince him to drink that much. Her cheeks are red though, and she wears a pleased smile.


	22. Table Manners (Anders x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Trying to go down on the other, under the table, during dinner."  
> Anders x FemHawke

“Whoops,” Hawke’s fork clatters to the floor, and her chair screeches as she pushes it back, falling to her hands and knees to go find it under the table. Anders is admittedly, being a pig, shoveling food into his mouth. It’s been only a few days since he’s moved into the Hawke estate and he’s never had so much food in his life. Hawke has been encouraging his newfound eating habits, carrying food around the estate to shove in his face. His knee jolts up into the table when he feels a touch on his thigh.

“Maker’s breath!” He hears laughter under the table at his exclamation, and the hand on his thigh tightens.

“It’s just me love,” she chuckles. He pushes his chair back and she grins, passing the fork to him. Space cleared, she slides forward, crossing her arms over his lap and looking up at him. He sets the fork back on the table and rubs her cheek with thumb.

“Thought it was that damn dog again. He’s always under there on me, looking for crumbs,” Anders sighs.

“You just need to eat neater. I’ll show you,” she says, grinning wickedly. Her hands are at the bottom of his robes, pushing them upwards.

“I – what?” She looks up at him innocently, tilting her head.

“Are you telling me to stop?”

“Maker, no.” She continues where she left off, encouraging him to lift his hips and push his robes to his waist. He’s already half hard at the sight of her on her knees before him, and he stiffens when she licks her lips. She takes his cock in her hand, giving him a few slow pumps until she sees a bead of pre-cum at his tip. Her head dips forward and she runs her tongue along the underside of his shaft, kissing the tip. She licks her lips again at the saltiness of it and he groans, hands clenched in fists on the table.

“Maker – Hawke,” he breathes, and with that, there are no more reservations. She seals her lips around the head of his cock and slides her lips down. Her tongue dances around the base of his tip, cheeks billowing and tongue twirling, and a hand drops to wind itself in her hair. She bobs her head up and down, that insufferable tongue driving him to madness.

She hums, and he shudders at the feeling of her throat rumbling around his cock. He bites at his lip, trying to hold back the wave of moans, holding onto her skull tightly as he fucks into her mouth. “Ah, Hawke, I’m –”

His hand jerks in her hair, warning her away, but her hands tighten on his thighs and she keeps him in her mouth. His hips hitch as he comes, groaning all the while, shuddering as he spills his seed onto her tongue. She feels his cock constrict and swallows all he has to give. She grins up at him, wiping drool and cum from her lips.

He falls to his knees in front of her and kisses her, tasting himself on her lips. “Your turn,” he growls. She squeals as he wrestles her to the floor, his fingers tracing up her bare thighs.


	23. Underwater (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Being drenched whilst wearing white.”  
> Fenris x FemHawke

They had bought a fixer-upper. Hawke was insistent on it, but Fenris just thinks she’s trying to kill him. She thinks it’s a great way to spend their time, considering they could live comfortably off her inheritance for many years to come. She’s in shorts and a tank top, covered in dirt, weeding and fixing their yard. She’s got the hose beside her, and she’s humming as she works. She’s wearing an old pair of garden gloves, thick and covered in dirt and soon her knees will be thick with mud.

He’s working at fixing the run down porch, replacing sagging wood with new pieces. His back is soaked with sweat as he works, keeping a nail in his mouth as he hammers away. He almost swallows it when he’s hit with a sudden blast of cold. Hawke is cackling maniacally in the yard, the hose still leaking onto the grass. He turns instantly, the hammer dropping from his hands as he advances on Hawke. “No, no, I’m sorry!” She’s squealing, scrambling to rise as he approaches.

“You’ve brought this on yourself,” he growls, not slowing down. She’s laughing breathlessly, squeezing on the toggle of the hose once again as if that would deter him. He’s absolutely drenched, his white t-shirt soaked down to the skin. He scowls as she aims at his face, finally stopping him in his tracks, to stand there gasping. Water is dripping down his hair, down his spine, and Hawke is nervously shaking with laughter.

Her face is flushed as she looks at him, biting at her lip as he wrings water from his shirt. It’s as if he’s wearing nothing now, able to see the gently curving lines of the markings tracing over his skin. Even better is the flesh underneath, shirt clinging to muscle, watching them ripple with each little bit of movement.

He’s soon advancing on her once again, and she’s happy to let him. He tackles her to the grass, his wet body pressing up against hers, her legs spread on either side of him. Water drips from his hair onto her forehead, and she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a hungry kiss. Her legs tighten around him, heels pressing onto his ass, and she moans when he grinds against her. “The neighbors will talk,” he says.

“Let them,” she breathes.


	24. Locked Heart (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Fenris seeing Hawke on their wedding day."  
> Fenris x FemHawke

Everything they’ve done has been in secret. Hawke’s armor sits buried in a chest, hidden but not forgotten. Fenris’s sword and her staff stay by the door, gathering dust. They wear simple clothes, his with hoods, and do their best to blend in. Hawke’s hair is longer now, his shorter, but she still laughs, still loves the same.

The burning of Kirkwall is still fresh in their minds. The threat of an exalted march even more so. They’ve found an isolated village, far from the noise of the rest of the world. Hawke uses her knowledge of herbs and healing, while Fenris uses his strength to help around the village. Their neighbors are quiet, all of them keeping to their own business. The perfect place to hide.

Some ask if they are married. They say no. Around the third time this is asked, Fenris resolves to change the answer. He has the rings made secretly. He sells his breastplate to pay for them. He asks a sister to perform the ceremony in a quiet space, away from the village and after dark. He sells his gauntlets to pay for it. He sets a date and does not tell her, sneaking out to drape the spot he has chosen in flowers and candles.

On the morning of, he gives her a time and directions to the place. She’s confused but does not question. He collects the rings, simple things of metal engraved with the imagery of hawks and wolves, and hopes that she’ll like it. He spends most of the day pacing in their fields, thinking and planning for what he’d like to say to her.

When the time comes, he meets the sister under the willow he has chosen, and lights the candles. As he waits, he wavers between excitement and feeling like he’s going to be sick. What if she hates it? What if she doesn’t want to marry him? All the words he has been practicing suddenly slip away. His stomach rolls and he turns the rings over and over in his pocket.

It’s the rustling of leaves and bushes that tells him she is close. He forces himself to stand still and straightens, pushing away all other thoughts. Her hair is pulled back loosely, stray wisps of it brushing across her face. Her trousers have a patch on the knee, her tunic long and stained with poultice and potion. She is _perfect_. She looks at the scene before her, confusion plain on her face, but he watches as comprehension slowly begins to dawn.

Her eyes widen, a trembling hand clapping over her mouth, the other reaching for him. He takes her hand in his, holding it tightly, watching her eyes swell with tears. She looks happy, and his heart leaps at the thought of him being the one to cause her such happiness. She uncovers her mouth only briefly to say, “You didn’t,” and begins to shake with watery laughter when he nods.

“I hope you are pleased. I hope you want – this.” He hopes she wants him. Her hand moves from her mouth to his cheek, smiling and still trembling, nodding vigorously.

“Of course you silly, most ridiculous, most unbelievable man.” It’s her smile, it’s always been her smile, which does him in. He leans forward catching her lips with his, the both of them laughing softly together. The sister makes a polite cough.

“Shall we begin?” He draws the rings from his pocket and she’s crying all over again, her fingers tracing them in his palm. He barely hears the words the sister is saying. He focuses on her hand in his, slipping the ring on her finger, the breathless laughter on her lips, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles, and the way she feels in his arms.


	25. On a Feeling (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I'm in love... shit."  
> Fenris x FemHawke

“What are you doing?” His voice is dry, amused, and he’s trying to hide the smile as he stands above her. She’s lying on the floor of her estate, hands linked over her stomach, staring up at the ceiling. She twists her head to look at Fenris.

“To be honest, I’m not quite sure.” He does chuckle at that, setting his sword to lean against the wall by her fireplace, before joining her on the floor.

“What are you doing here?” Hawke asks, looking at him. He turns his head to look at her, and she can see a small amount of pink in his cheeks.

“I am – your mother made me cookies. I am returning the basket,” he mumbles. Hawke’s eyebrows immediately shoot up, and her incredulous chuckle soon turns into full blown laugher.

“That’s where those went! I was teased all day by the smell, but when I go to get some, they’re gone! Maker, you owe me some cookies Fenris.”

“Ah – I am not – I do not know how to –”

“Relax, I’m joking. Having you at my side in battle is more than enough.” It’s a strange thing, sharing silence with Hawke. At first he wants to fill it, but when he tilts his head to her, she is staring at the ceiling and smiling. She breathes deeply and closes her eyes, looking completely at ease with the quiet between them.

“It’s strange, you know. I grew up on a farm. I could touch the ceiling with my hand,” she says quietly, raising one of her hands upwards into the empty air.

“Now I live in a mansion, have coin, and more bedrooms than I need.”

“You are a humble person Hawke, you have more than earned this.”

“Maybe.”

“The more you protest, the more ridiculous I think you are,” he says simply. He hears her snort, and her shadow appears in his vision as she sits up and turns, one hand beside his head, the other tapping on his breastplate.

“You sir, have a lot of nerve, coming into my own home and calling me ridiculous! Why, I think I might faint.”

“Lady Hawke, full of delicate sensibilities. The sight of blood terrifies her. She runs screaming from spiders,” he rumbles. Hawke throws back her head and laughs, swaying as she sits, her hand firmly on his chest to keep herself steady. Her cheeks are pink with delight, the laughter pouring from her, spilling its way into Fenris as he joins her in a chuckle. He lifts himself to sit beside her, their faces close as they laugh.

When the laughter dies and they are left breathless, there is still a smile in her eyes, a warmth he cherishes. She loves the way he smiles, the gentle curve of his lips, the way his eyes crinkle. A different person he becomes, one she wants to see more often. They look at each other in the silence and one single thought runs through both of them. _Shit_.


	26. Sunlight (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “Having a wet dream and calling the other’s name during it” to “having some ‘private time’ and the other accidentally walking in.”  
> Fenris x FemHawke

He’s been lucky, he guesses. Even with all he’s experienced, his sleep is mostly dreamless. Hawke’s dreams have been less kind to her, Maker knows how many times she’s woken up complaining of rampaging Qunari and the tragedies which have befallen her family. He dreams more when he sleeps in her bed. Ones of her standing in a field, smiling as she beckons him towards her. She’s always wearing a dress he’s never seen her wear, and there’s a flower tucked behind her ear. Usually they end when he takes her hand. Tonight, it does not.

Tonight the dream-Hawke takes him into her arms, guiding Fenris to help her unlace her dress. Even here, her breasts are wonderful. Freckled like the rest of her, pink and pert, his mouth drops to take in a nipple. She croons when he does, winding her hands into his hair. The dress drops into the grass and she stands naked and statuesque before him. She’s the most perfect thing he’s ever seen. He wraps an arm around her waist, holding her close, his other hand traveling down her belly to the wetness that awaits him between her thighs.

His fingers touch with familiarity, light touches at her clit in a way he knows makes her legs shake. She cries out, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, breathing hot air onto his ears. He loves the way she writhes in his arms, taken utterly by the pleasure he is giving her. A finger slips into her cunt, and he groans at the heat that greets him, and the way she clenches around him. Her hips buck into his touch as his finger pumps in and out of her, fucking his hand.

She moans, and her tongue begins to trace along his ear. It sends a shock straight down his spine, right to his cock. Little jolts of desire, culminating in her sucking at the tip, making him groan with want. Her hands move to fumble at the laces on his breeches, shoving desperately to find him, and just as her touch grazes him, he wakes with a start.

Fenris is lying in the bed on his stomach, hard cock trapped between him and the mattress. He rolls over, and he is red and throbbing with need. Hawke’s side of the bed is empty but still warm, and he kicks back the sheets and sits up slightly. He can’t tell how late it is. There’s a good chance that Hawke has slipped out for the day, leaving him to sleep. His hand moves downwards, to touch the bead of pre-cum at the tip of his cock, smearing it down the underside of his shaft.

He leans his head back against the headboard, wrapping his hand around himself, stroking back and forth. The dream is still fresh in his mind and it is easy to imagine Hawke standing before him, still moaning, still writhing, and still desperate for him, just as he is desperate for her. He strokes harder, his other hand winding into the bedsheet as he groans. “H-Hawke,” he groans, imagining her riding him, and the way her tits would bounce.

His eyes snap open at the touch on his cheek, to see Hawke smiling before him. Her robe is untied, loose and open, and she’s even more perfect here than she was in the dream. “Let me,” she whispers, replacing Fenris’s hand with her own. The robe falls to the floor, discarded, as she moves to straddle him, her hips above his own. She bites her bottom lip as she aligns his cock with her entrance, rubbing the head of it with her slickness.

She lowers herself bit by bit, the both of them groaning at the feeling, his hands bruising on her hips. She’s tight but welcoming, wet and warm, and she gasps when he’s inside her to the hilt. Her hips rock slowly at first, but soon pick up speed, her toes digging into the mattress as she moves. Her breasts bounce even better than he imagined, and he reaches up with one hand to grab at one of them. He rolls a nipple between his fingers and her hips stutter and shake.

His other hand finds that nub of flesh, teasing it gently to inch her ever closer to coming. He can feel her tighten, and she calls his name as the waves crash over her. She carries him with her, his breathing quickening and his hands shaking as he spills his seed inside of her. She bends over to kiss him lightly, lips brushing up against lips, with a smile on her face. “I take it you had a good dream then?”

“A better morning,” he tells her as she laughs.


	27. Cinders (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goes with [ this picture ](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/147379093569)

It was supposed to be a night of freedom. Away from things of chains, of raised voices, of orders. Somehow, he's stumbled into chains of a different sort. The chains in question are standing on the dais, arms crossed behind his back, next to the Queen on her throne. It's not the beard, the broadness, nor the thing scar across his nose which attracts Fenris's attention. It's his eyes.

They scan the crowd, the dancing masses, and there's a smile on a face. A smile which is reflected in his eyes - a fondness, a warmth, protective and caring. A spark of nervousness shoots up his spine when he sees the Prince’s eyes meet his. His knuckles are white, holding the glass tightly in his hand. When the Prince steps down from the dais, approaching him, he downs the remaining wine quickly. Courage, to still his quickly beating heart, calm the flush on his face.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, serah,” the Prince’s voice is as warm as his smile, warm as he imagines his touch to be. Fenris coughs, clearing his throat, setting the empty glass down on the table beside him.

“I am called Fenris, my lord,” Fenris’s bow is low and the Prince’s chuckle light. “No need for that, come on, up, up now,” he says, his hands on Fenris’s shoulder. No amount of wine would stop the red that blossoms on his cheeks.

“I’m called Hawke, though I’m sure you knew that.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I just told you my name, didn’t I? Please, use it. It makes me feel better, honestly,” Hawke says, a hand scratching at the back of his neck. Fenris chuckles, watching how Hawke shuffles his feet and grins at his laughter.

“Look, I - would it be bold of me if I asked you to dance Fenris?” Hawke asks, extending his hand to him. Fenris immediately straightens, his hands rolling into fists. One slowly reaches out, and settles into Hawke’s hand. It’s as warm as he thought it would be.

“I – no, no it wouldn’t be bold… Hawke.”


	28. Haven't Met Yet (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Nobility!Hawke meeting Slave!Fenris"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

“Stand up straight, you’re the Viscountess now you have to look like it.”

“’Varric mutters in an angry aside to Hawke.’”

“You know I hate it when you do that.” Hawke rolls her eyes but stands up straighter anyway, squaring her shoulders, holding her glass loosely, and watching the wine swirl as she moves. Tevinter wine, aggregio pavali – something she’s never developed the taste for. She’s wearing black and gold, void of her usual red, to blend in with the gaudy Tevinter nobles. It’s all excess and show, another thing she’s never developed the taste for. Especially appalling are the many servants – _slaves_ – with the collars round their necks, the chains in hand of their _owners_. She drinks the wine bitterly.

“Stop looking like you hate everything too. We’re here to secure alliances for Kirkwall, not create eternal enemies,” Varric says to her as he straightens the buttons on his coat. She thinks that Varric should have been Viscount, not her. Champion of Kirkwall, it was only right that she take up the mantle. She wants to laugh at that. What did she know about politicking? Varric follows her faithfully and informs her of all the things she’s doing wrong.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention! In honor of our esteemed guest from Kirkwall…” Danarius stands on the dais and raises his glass to Hawke. She forces herself to smile and nod, raising her glass in return. “A presentation! A performance for you all!” He raises his arms and beams, the slimy git, and all of his guests clap and cheer. All except for Hawke. Danarius tugs on the chain in his hand, and a white-haired elf goes to join Danarius at his side.

He’s the only slave wearing armor, spiked and feathered, clearly a bodyguard. One that Danarius favors, made evident by the beaming smile on his face. There are thin white lines twisting over his skin, and his shoulders are hunched, making himself small, as though he could hide from the crowd in front of him. Another slave is dragged forward, pushed to his knees on the other side of Danarius, facing opposite of the elf. This one is gagged and bound, eyes wide and wet, shaking as he kneels.

“Fenris, my lyrium ghost, will show why he is feared across the empire! Fenris, wolf, show me his heart,” Danarius proclaims and the slave on the floor begins to sob and shake, muffled begging behind the gag on his mouth. Fenris stalks forward, raising one gauntleted hand, and the lines on his skin begin to _glow_. Hawke is quick to realize that this is lyrium embedded into his flesh and her stomach turns at the thought of what it must have taken to accomplish such a feat.

Fenris sinks his hand into the slave’s chest with ease, and brings forth a still beating and bloody heart. “Oh Maker, just smile, just smile,” she hears Varric muttering beside her. Fenris bows his head and presents his prize to his master, as the slave on the floor slumps and collapses in a heap. The nobles erupt into cheers and applause, and Hawke keeps the smile plastered on her face, looking at Fenris rather than Danarius.

She tosses and turns in his guest rooms, the events of the evening still running through her mind. Hawke sighs and sits up, pulling the covers off of her as she rubs her brow. Tevinter was a mad place. She would be glad to be rid of it and go home to Kirkwall. She shoots up when she hears the door open, wreathing her hand in electricity, ready to fight the intruder. “My Lady, I was sent to please you,” Fenris says as he closes the door behind himself. He’s wearing no armor now, just a tunic and leggings.

“Sent to please me? What –” The magic she summoned dies, at a loss for words.

“My master saw the way you looked at me. He wishes to ensure your happiness,” Fenris says as he begins to unbutton his tunic. Hawke races forward, her hands on his wrists, stopping him from going any further.

“Maker no, no, I don’t want that.” The elf is confused, brows knitted together as he cocks his head.

“No one has ever denied this before, my Master won’t be pleased,” he says in a low voice, and Hawke can practically feel the fear radiating off of him in waves.

“Please, you can tell him we did if that makes it better, just don’t – do this,” Hawke says as she lets go of his wrists, after she is sure he won’t immediately start stripping again. “You should go to your own room, get some sleep,” she sighs. Fenris shakes his head, hands playing at his wrists, as if mystified at her touch.

“There are guards… waiting to see.”

“For the love of – fine, then, come sit with me,” she says, moving to the bed, sitting up against the headrest, patting the spot beside her. He sinks himself into it slowly, sitting like a petrified cat, ready to dart away at any moment. She watches him, watches the way he watches her, like he’s worried she’ll try to strangle him. She sighs again.

“Maker, what a mess. Fenris, have – have you ever thought about leaving here? Going somewhere else?” He shakes his head vigorously.

“That is a crime against my master.”

“Are you happy?” She asks this hesitantly. He only stares at her blankly, before his eyes shift downwards to stare at his hands sitting atop his crossed legs. “You’re not.” He’s frowning again, biting his lip, as if he’s ashamed she knows. “You could come with us Fenris, come to Kirkwall, and be away from all of this.” Varric would strangle her, scold her and her damn bleeding heart. It would be worth it, to save even one slave from this wretched place.

He shoots away from the bed as though he’s been electrified. “I cannot, my master would be – my master would be most displeased. I must – I must,” he’s pacing and she stands to reach for him but he practically runs from her, to the door, scrambling away. Apparently, whatever punishment for failing to seduce her was better than the thought of freedom.

Hawke doesn’t sleep that night.

She leaves for Kirkwall the next day.

She never sees the white-haired elf again.


	29. Tattoos (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Hawke gets a tattoo"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

His fingers track down her spine, tracing over every bump and every bruise, gentle touches on her skin. She’s smiling, her eyes closed, lying on the bed with her arms crossed under the pillow. He knows the story that accompanies every scrape and scar, tiny blemishes that only add to her perfection. He rests his head down, lying on his side, his hand still on her back. Her eyes open sleepily, and he brushes away stray strands of hair from her face. She slides forward to kiss him, planting her lips on his.

“I’ve been thinking,” she murmurs when she finally pulls away. She settles back down onto the pillow, watching as he smiles.

“Dangerous thing, that,” he says, still smiling as Hawke reaches over to give Fenris a light punch in the arm. She rolls to her side, facing him, her fingertip running down the length of his jaw.

“Before Carver went to Ostagar, he got a tattoo. A dog. A ridiculous dog,” she chuckes, “he could make it bark. It was – it was… terrible. But it was absolutely Carver.” She pauses, her smile turning sad, pulling the bedsheet to her chest as she huddles closer to him. “You would’ve liked him,” she says quietly. He stays silent, sensing the thoughts rolling around in her head. After a few moments, she sighs.

“So, I was thinking, of getting a tattoo like his. To remember him,” she says, closing her eyes and bumping her forehead against his.

“Will you make it bark?” He asks, and she rewards him with laughter. He wants to shake the melancholy from her, keep her smiling, and keep her happy. His comment earns him another small punch. She rises, straddling him, his wrists under her hands.

“You won’t – mind? Will you? If I do?” She’s frowning, but she doesn’t break eye contact and he cocks his head at her.

“It is your body Hawke – your choice. You have the right to do what you wish,” he tells her. She leans forward to kiss him again, before settling on top of him, her chin resting on her hands, her hands on his chest.

“I just – I didn’t want to – you know,” she sighs, closing her eyes briefly. He knows what she’s thinking. Her finger is moving in light circles on his chest, over delicate lyrium lines. He smiles, and flips her onto the bed, trapping her beneath him.

“I think it would suit you,” he says. “My Ferelden dog-lord.”

“Dog- _lady_ ,” she corrects, laughing. “You’re sure?”

“I am. And – thank you Hawke. For asking,” he says quietly, appreciating the respect she gives him. She’s smiling again, her hands on his face, pulling him in for another kiss. He buries himself in the crook of her neck, his arms wrapped around her, feeling the warmth pouring from her. “I hope you make it bark,” he says. She shakes with laughter, her hand on his hair, a kiss on his forehead.


	30. Troubles (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I don't know how you get yourself into these situations"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

He watches her disappear with nothing but a small yelp, the rock crumbling beneath her feet. She throws up her arms, leaving her staff to go clattering to the floor behind her while she goes tumbling down into the dark. They gawk over the edge, watching the cloud of dust that follows her path. “Hawke!” Varric cups his hands around his mouth and shouts downwards. “Are you still alive?” She’s down in the deep, and they can’t see her and for all they know she’s found a sharp rock at the bottom. Merrill picks up Hawke’s staff, now holding two, and stepping away from the edge with wide eyes.

“I fucking hate the deep roads,” carries upwards, in Hawke’s distinct tone. Varric chuckles while Merrill breathes a sigh of relief.

“She’s got no staff! What if there are more darkspawn? Or those things!” Merrill titters, knuckles white around the two staffs she has. Fenris reaches for Hawke’s, prying it away from Merrill’s grip.

“I will climb down to her. The two of you find some other way down,” he says dryly, inspecting the rock below. Enough footholds for an easy descent. He climbs down slowly, distributing his weight evenly as he moves, compensating for the sword and staff on his back. It’s simple enough, the rock jagged and firm, and he makes his way down to the bottom relatively quickly despite his caution.

It is cooler down below, and his fingers trace the edge of the wall to find his way in the dark. He sees a small light in the distance, a glowing orb of magic, and makes his way towards it. It bobs around Hawke’s shoulders, while she is crouched on the ground, her knees at her chest and her hands over her head. “I don’t know how you get yourself into these situations,” he says, while she looks up, eyes wide. He cocks his head, knitting his brows as he crouches down beside her.

“Are you alright Hawke?” She groans, her forehead back on her knees, hands linked on top of her head.

“I thought I would be fine,” she says, words muffled. “Just a couple weeks underground, how bad could it be? I was fine. Fucking rocks falling down, crushing us, murderingusinoursleep,” her words trail off into nothing, and she holds herself tighter. Fenris stands, leaning his sword and his staff against the wall before sitting down beside her.

“The deep roads are a marvel of engineering, and they have held strong for thousands of thousands of years, surely they’ll hold for a few more –” His words cut off abruptly as Hawke leans herself into him, her head on his shoulder, a hand holding onto his breastplate. “I – ah –” He cautiously raises his arm, bringing it down slowly around her shoulders. He rests it lightly, afraid to touch, afraid to hold, but he can hear Hawke shudder with a breath of relief. He leans his head back against the wall, lowering his arm fully around her. “It’s going to be alright,” he tells her.


	31. Sickness (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “I’m trying very hard not to see all this as a metaphor for my life.”  
> Fenris x FemHawke

He hears a crash from the kitchen, and he’s immediately on his feet and off the couch, racing towards the sound. He finds Hawke standing over a medley of food on the floor, her face in her hands. She’s staring at the mess, and then at Fenris, then back to the mess. “I’m trying very hard not to see all this as a metaphor for my life,” she says, gesturing at the floor. He sighs, rubbing his brow.

“I told you to stay in bed, Hawke. If you needed something, you had the bell.”

“Maker’s breath Fen, I’m not summoning you with a damn _bell_.”

“You are sick.”

“I’m not going to be useless!” Fenris’s eyebrows shoot up and he waves at the mess on the floor. “Fine, not completely useless,” she sighs. Fenris shakes his head, stepping around soup and glass, to hoist Hawke up in his arms. She sniffles into his chest, winding a hand into his shirt. He takes each step up the stairs carefully, ensuring not to jostle her. Her eyes are closed, half asleep already, mouth open slightly and cheeks red from the fever. He slips her back into the bed, drawing the covers around her.

She settles into the pillow as he tucks her in, brushing stray strands of hair away from her face. He presses the back of his hand to her forehead, feeling the warmth there and clicks his tongue against his teeth. Her eyes open sleepily, a smile on her face. “Uh-oh, that’s never a good noise,” she says. He grunts, and squishes her cheeks together until she giggles.

“I should bring Anders to see you again.” She groans, and rolls over away from him. She buries her face into the pillow and pulls the covers up, hiding away him.

“He’s going to make me drink something gross again,” she says, her voice muffled.

“He’s going to make you drink something to get you well,” Fenris replies, his hand on her shoulder, rolling her back over to face him. She has her bottom lip stuck out in a fake pout, demanding mercy.

“You are acting like a child,” he says, but he’s smiling, and he leans forward for a kiss. She gasps and immediately slaps her hand over his mouth.

“No, you’re going to get sick,” she says. He moves forward even more, pressing her hand down against her mouth. He kisses the hand over her mouth, then moves to stand.

“I’m going to get Anders,” he says.

“No Fenris, no, gross and yucky liquid torture!”

“And use the bell.”

“But you’re going to be gone getting Anders.”

“Stay in the bed Hawke.”

“I hate you.” “Mhmm.”

“I love you.”

“And I you, Hawke.”


	32. A Thousand Times Goodnight (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Hawke or Fenris die, haunts the other."  
> Fenris x FemHawke

When she touches him, he screams. He’s kneeling on the ground, his hands over his head, forehead touching the cool stone below. She has her hand on his shoulder and he’s screaming. When she pulls her hand away, the screaming fades into broken sobs. His hands wind into fists, pulling at his hair, rocking back and forth and she does not touch him. She hugs her arms to herself and tells him how sorry she is, over and over again, the words pouring from her mouth. He does not hear her.

* * *

 

“What have you done Anders?” She turns white, the fear and horror plainly read on her face, and she turns towards Hightown. The Chantry. He’s done something to the Chantry. She has to get Elthina. Hawke turns towards the steps heading away from Lowtown and takes them two at a time, running as fast as she can. Faintly she can hear them yelling behind her, Anders screaming at her not to, Fenris telling her to come back. She’s almost there. She’s so close. Then she’s blown back.

* * *

 

He lights no candles. He’s a ghost as much as she, and he haunts her estate. He spends most of his time sleeping, as he cannot bear the pain of waking. He cowers at the sound of knocking, and makes himself small, as though he is not there. He isn’t, not truly. He eats enough to survive. He doesn’t feel hunger anymore. She follows behind him, arms around herself, and begs for him to hear her. To know she’s keeping the promise to stay by his side.

* * *

 

Her back hits the wall, and she crumples to the ground, gasping. She wants to get up, crawl away from the fire, but she’s so cold and she thinks there’s something missing. She presses her hands to her gut and finds it warm and wet with blood. It doesn’t hurt. “Hawke!” She closes her eyes. That’s Fenris, his panicked voice, searching for her. He gives a strangled shout when he finds her, collapsing to his knees, taking her in his arms. She smiles up at him.

“You found me,” she says. His arms are tight around her, his fingers bruising into her flesh as he holds her. He brushes hair away from her face, wipes the blood from her mouth, and presses his lips to her forehead. He rocks her in his arms and she wishes she could feel his warmth. It’s just so cold. Her teeth are chattering as she shakes, and her hand finds his shoulder, his neck, his face.

“Hawke, Hawke, _Marian_ ,” he gasps, “please, look at me, stay with me.” She wants to, but she feels so unfocused, her eyelids so heavy. “I cannot – I cannot do this without you, please, Hawke, don’t leave me, please don’t leave me.”

* * *

While he sleeps, she runs her fingers through his hair, and wishes she could feel him. Her touch does nothing except make him wince. She stayed, for him, but all that’s done is cause him more pain. He rolls over, away from her, burying his face in the pillow. He barely rises out of bed now. He’s wasting away in her bedroom, dreaming of Hawke. The others have tried breaking in before, but none could rouse him. The only one who could was gone, was sitting on the bed, and could only watch.

* * *

“Fenris, Fenris, I have loved you so much,” she tells him, smiling as her eyes close, “the moment we met, I knew it was over for me.” Her head is resting against his chest, and he will not let her go, only holding her tighter. “ _Maker_ , but I will miss you.” She sighs, feeling tears not her own on her face. He holds her as he screams, begging her to come back. So she stays, kneeling beside him and her own broken body, and tells him she is his and she will never leave his side. He keeps screaming.

* * *

Today he wakes in the afternoon, although he doesn’t know that. The curtains are closed, the sun hidden, and time doesn’t really matter. Fenris sits up, his feet touching the ground, and he sits at the edge of her bed for a long time. Hawke sits beside him. He rises and she rises with him, watching as he changes into clothes that no longer fit him, taking a sword that he now struggles to carry. He leaves her estate for the first time in months. He’s walking to the Wounded Coast, and she’s walking with him, and oh Maker she wishes she could hold his hand. Make it seem like one of those nightly strolls they used to take. He throws his sword off a cliff, into the water below. He sits at the edge, his feet dangling over, and he’s so tired. Hawke sits beside him and watches the sun set while he watches the waves crash against rocks. Fenris walked to the Wounded Coast. He did not walk back.

* * *

“I’ve missed you,” she says.

“And I you, Hawke. I am yours,” he says.


	33. Missing (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Fenris is ready to reunite, but Hawke has doubts and insecurities (maybe she doesn't feel that pull she used to have 3 years ago, or she’s now a champion of a city that needs babysitting, which means no time for a complicated personal life, or maybe Fen had a relationship with Isabela, so she's kind of hurt and doesn't trust his feelings), so Fenris has to prove his determination and feelings. A relationship study, not about sex, but feel free to include if you feel like it"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

She’s spent years learning how best not to hurt. He’s taken his time learning how to feel. He touches the back of her hand with his fingertips and she pulls away. She cradles her hand at her chest, in a fist, as though he’d burned her. Hawke rises from their table at the Hanged Man, and slips out the door without a word to the others. He watches her go and wonders what he’s done to make her hate him so. She’d recoiled from him, his confession, after they killed Danarius. Fenris had told her nothing could be worse than living without her and she’d ran. She’s still running.

Hawke stands before the mirror in her bedroom, fingers tracing every scar, tracking every perceived imperfection. Her hands move from hip to breast, from collarbone to neck, running through her hair, covering her face. She was not enough. Not enough to make him stay. Not even enough to demand her feelings spared. _That night… I can’t stop thinking about it._ Isabela’s words ring in her ears. _Well, then I’ll see you later_. Fenris’s reply stabs in her gut.

Fenris had left Hawke’s mansion after killing Hadriana with a heavy weight churning in his chest. He wasn’t whole. It would hurt them both more if he stayed. He wasn’t ready. He wanted to be. He sought out Isabela weeks later, trying to re-create… everything. It wasn’t the same. There were no memories, no love, no Hawke. It wasn’t enough. Still, he went to Isabela’s bed again and again, growing more and more frustrated, watching Hawke pull away more and more.

She’s decided on not to feel. He’s trying to show her that he does. People knock on the Champion’s door, telling her this and that, demanding she solve their problems. The letters pile up on her desk, and she runs herself ragged looking after Kirkwall. The bags grow heavy and dark under her eyes, and she has taken to swaying on her feet with her eyes closed whenever they have a moment’s peace. All at once, the visits, the demands, the letters cease. She’s mystified until she spots Fenris pacing by her door, glaring at any who come near. She spends three days in bed.

On the fourth, she walks by the docks, sitting at the edge of a pier, her toes in the water. No one comes near her. He thinks she doesn’t see him, warding away any who might bother her. He keeps himself at a distance as well. He sits at the opposite end of their table at the Hanged Man now, staring at the table, at the floor, anywhere but her. He misses her laughter. She misses his smile. All he does now is scowl, at strangers and friends alike, and the cracks appear in her resolve, that feeling creeping back in. She needs to see that smile again.

They fight side by side, her magic powerful but calm, and she moves with a quiet fury. He watches her he’d watch a storm, all danger and light, and does not notice the knife aimed at him. He cries out when it buries itself in his shoulder, slumping forward, the storm racing to his side. She attacks the bandit not with magic, but with staff and fist, sinking her blade hilt into his belly. She turns to Fenris immediately, pulling the knife free, her hands over blood and skin, knitting his flesh back together. Her brows are knitted, sweat matting her hair to her forehead. He touches her cheek. Her eyes find his. It is enough, for now. She does not pull away. He does not let go.


	34. Firelight (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Mutual hurt/comfort where they just hold each other."  
> Fenris x FemHawke

"Fenris." It's the way she says his name that breaks him, that hurt and need in her voice. She stands on his doorstep, lost and wide-eyed, soaked to the bone even with that cloak around her. He pulls her into his room, pulls her into his arms, holding her head to his chest as he wraps his arms around her. He can feel her moving, her hands fisting into the back of his shirt, shivering from the cold. His hand is in her hair, damp from the rain, and he kisses her forehead. He hears her breath stutter at that, as though he's just handed her the world. He holds her even tighter.

He sits her on his bed as he fetches towels and dry clothes. He kneels before her, a towel in his hands, and he gently begins to wring her hair dry. "I've missed you," he says quietly, watching the light of the fire dance on her face. She closes her eyes, her arms wrapped around herself, and bends forward until their foreheads touch.

"And I you," she whispers. He helps her remove the shirt that clings to her, those stubborn pants, handing her ill-fitting clothes of his own in return. He settles her in the bed, drawing the covers around her, and she watches him all the while, taking touches where she can find them. He means to hang her clothes up to dry, but she grabs at his shirt before he can move. "Stay," she asks. He climbs into the bed with her, an arm open in invitation, and she takes it gladly.

The fire crackles, and she nestles herself into the crook of his arm. Her fingers play with his shirt, hand on his chest, while one of his arms is wrapped around her, his other hand meeting hers. Their fingers knit together, their legs tangled up, and they warm each other slowly - no fire needed. They drift to sleep peacefully, connected, inseparable, entwined, as one.


	35. Storms (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Caught in a thunderstorm and having to find shelter."  
> Fenris x FemHawke

"The weather network promised me sunshine all goddamn day. This is not sunshine!" Hawke shouts, her hand tight in his as he laughs, pulling her along as they run. The rain beats down upon them, cold on his spine, drenching them in full. She shrieks at the thunder that chases the lightning, a loud boom that sounds closer than she is comfortable with. He drags her underneath the overhang of a store, a tiny lip of shelter. She looks up at him, laughing, the rain in her lashes and water dripping from her nose. She reaches up and shakes her hand through his hair, watching the water droplets fly. He wrinkles his nose in a way that makes her chuckle, her hands on his cheek.

"You're so cold!" She says, and he feels the twitch in her fingers when thunder pierces hearing once again.

"You'll just have to warm me," Fenris growls with a wolfish grin, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against him. She laughs into his chest, holding her hands together behind his back as she smiles.

"So much for our picnic," she mourns.

"There will be more days, other opportunities" he says, resting his chin on top of her head, his arms wrapped over his shoulders. She makes a noise of contentment at that, rubbing her face against his chest, her hands fisting into his shirt.


	36. Crème Brûlée (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Modern AU fluff"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

It was going terribly. It was going wonderfully? She’s laughing and Fenris is wondering if that’s good. She’s chuckling into the food, sniffing at the wine he selected before she tastes it. Her eyebrows raise and she drinks even more of it and he hopes that that’s a good sign. She insists they get desert, even though they’re both full already. She says the crème brûlée is to die for and he’s not leaving until he’s had it. She breaks it with her spoon and eats some, smirking with delight, before dipping her spoon back in and presenting it to him. He reddens but opens his mouth, tasting the sweetness - sugar and Hawke - on his tongue. They walk downtown, under the street lights, talking quietly together. There’s no other noise but her voice, even with the cars rushing past and other people in the distance. He walks her to her door. He tells her he’s had a good time. She smiles and says she has too. He stammers in his goodbye, his good-night, his hands balling into fists and back out again. She stands on her toes and kisses him before he can react. Hawke and sugar, sweetness on her lips. She smiles and waves, disappearing behind her door, promising to talk to him soon. He wavers on his feet, a smile chasing her kiss, anticipation to see her again - _now, soon, now_ \- in his bones.


	37. Lagniappe (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Lagniappe – A special kind of gift"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

He doesn’t expect to see her. He expects her to hate him. So when he opens the door two days after he left her to find her on his doorstep, he’s a mess. Her eyebrows raise, a hand going to his tussled hair, the other reaching for the wine bottle in his hand. “No more of that,” she says softly. He steps aside as she enters. She pours the rest of the wine down the sink, placing the empty bottle on the counter. She stands there quietly for a few moments before turning to him.

He sits at his table, head resting against his hand, a knuckle rubbing sleep from his eyes. She kneels down before him, looking up at him with a sad smile. “When was the last time you slept?” She asks, her voice still soft, as if knowing the pain that pounded in his skull. His only reply is a shrug. She sighs, her hand on his knee. He wants to ask her what she’s doing. Why is she here? Why doesn’t she seem angry with him? Instead, when she stands and extends her hand to him, he takes it.

She leads him to his bed, that grip she has on his hand ever so light, so easily broken if he wanted to. He holds her tighter instead. She points to his bed, and he feels almost silly as he climbs in. She sits on the bed beside him, smoothing down the blankets, a frown working its way onto her face. He’s still holding her hand. She reaches inside one her pouches, and draws out a red cloth.

She places his hand on her thigh, and wraps that cloth around his wrist. She ties it tight enough to hold, nimble fingers working a neat bow. “A family tradition,” she says, “for those we love.” Her eyes find his. He sits up, the hand now marked reaching for her face. His thumb runs against her cheekbone and she closes her eyes at his touch.

“Sleep,” she says as she takes his hand and places it on his chest. “I’ll be by tomorrow.” She bends over, brushing hair from his forehead before kissing the space she cleared. He wants to beg her to stay, tell her how _sorry_ , how _undeserving_ … Instead, he watches her go. He sleeps with his hand curled to his chest, red over his heart, and his other protecting hand over the cloth. He’d keep it safe, he promises, he’d keep her safe.


	38. Halcyon (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Halcyon – Happy, sunny, care-free"  
> Anders x FemHawke

He’s so _tired_. Her hands trace well-worn lines on his face, push back those strawberry locks, and she plants a kiss on that nose she loves so much. He smiles at that, but doesn’t open his eyes. She lies back down in the grass beside him, on that hill of theirs, her hands playing with the stray threads on his tunic. His hands find hers, wrapping them up, calming her fidgeting. He’s so tired. They’ve been running for so long.

She switches hands, entwining fingers as her back settles in the dirt. The grass sways around their heads. The sun shines brightly in the sky, light and shade as clouds pass by. She can hear birds, crickets, the wind in the trees, his breathing. She tilts her head, looking at him. As if sensing her gaze, he turns to look at her. They smile, and squeeze their hands together a little tighter. “We’re safe,” she tells him. His smile gets a little sad, at that.

She rolls, moving to straddle him, her hands fisted into the chest of his tunic. “Anders,” she says, “we’re free. Two mages, and we’re _free_. We can do whatever we want.” His hands reach up, running down the curve of her ribs, her hips. “We can have a bunch of babies if we want to.”

“I – being a Grey Warden – I don’t know,” he starts, but she presses a finger to his lips.

“Babies, kittens, mabari, whatever you want, I will find a way,” she says. “We’re free, we’re free, we’re free, we’re _safe_ ,” she repeats it like a mantra, pressing her forehead against hers. “Maker, I’m so happy to be with you.” 

She feels his hands shake at that, moving up her back against her neck, pulling her to his mouth for an achingly soft kiss. She can feel his heart beat faster under her palms, and he doesn’t need to say it for her to know that he is happy too. He’d realize soon that she’d keep him safe. No more running. They would be the family they wanted to be, away from the Templars. She’d help him see it. She’d give him the rest he needs, and all the happiness he deserves.


	39. Imbroglio (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Imbroglio - An altercation or complicated situation"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

“Fenris, it’s _me_ ,” she pleads, her arms outstretched towards him. He shakes his head, grimacing, gritting his teeth together, and pressing a palm against his temple. His other hand holds his sword, pointed at her chest. There’s red in his vision, blurring at the edges and he’s trying to shake it from his skull. Hadriana should be _dead_. But there she stands before him, backed up against the tree. She should be running, she should fear him. If she would not stay dead, he would simply remove her heart again. He wouldn’t need his sword.

“Please, Fenris, I don’t want to use magic on you, please, it’s me, it’s me,” she’s begging now as he approaches, the lyrium ignited. There’s that red again, in the blue glow, a malevolent presence. He will not let it distract it from his task. One of his fists buries into the tree beside her head, while the other outstretches, a claw for her blackened heart. He snarls through her pathetic attempt at panicked magic, ferrying it away with his lyrium. Hadriana, Hadriana, Hadriana, _Hawke_.

Hawke has her hands on his arm, his fist inside her chest. Her eyes are wide, terrified, mouth open, still saying his name. She swims into his vision, his Hawke, and he scrambles back, horrified, falling to the ground. She doubles over, gasping, her hands massaging at her chest.

He remembers the first time he had a nightmare, stuck in the bed with her. He had come to himself with his hand inside her chest, sweat on his brow, and her hands on his cheeks. She had smiled, and said his name. He was so, so… but she was calm. She understood.

Now she was afraid. Afraid of him. His heart beats at an irregular pace, and he stares at his offending hand. Red lyrium. Inside of him. His skin is purpling at the proximity of it swimming through lyrium veins. The blight. He lets out a strangled cry, hands grasping at his head, knees pulled to his chest, the tip of his gauntlets biting into his skull. She kneels down beside him, wrapping her arms around him, pulling his head to her chest. He clings to her desperately, unable to let go.

“We’ll find a way,” she says, murmuring into his hair, even as her hands shake, “I will save you.” He was a danger. He almost killed her. He closes his eyes and listens to her heart beat. He needed to leave. He holds her tight, this one last time.


	40. Panacea (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Panacea - A solution for all problems"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

His lungs burn, every muscle and every bone aches. Down to the core, he feels only the pain and the panic. He can hear the soldiers shouting behind him, his masters underlings, too many for him to fight. So, he runs. Leaves batter at his face, mud under his feet, sword heavy on his back. He races through the jungles of Seheron, away, away, away, Danarius’s mad screaming still echoing in his skull. There’s blood on sword, on his hands, the blood of the friends he slaughtered. He launches himself forward with a ragged cry; he cannot stop to think, he cannot stop.

They’re getting closer, he can hear the brutes crashing through branches and brush behind him, Danarius screeching _get him, get him_! Why is he so slow? They’ll catch him at this rate and they’ll, _they’ll_ – Danarius will rip the lyrium from his skin and leave him for dead. One hand reaches for the hilt of his sword. They would not take him, they would not have him, he would fight, he would kill –

“Fenris.” There’s a hand on his face as he gasps back into consciousness, sitting up instantly. Sweat beads across his brow, heart racing against the cage of his chest. The panic is still there, the urgency, the danger, his eyes flicking across the room. “Fenris,” she says it again, ever so softly. She sits up beside him, her hand on his shoulder, rubbing small circles onto his back. “You’re safe.” She moves to her knees, crawling beside him, giving him a small smile as she presses their heads together. “I have you.”

He reaches for her, his hands on her arms, closing his eyes as he forces himself to breathe deeply, to calm the blood pumping through his veins. “Hawke, I apologize for waking you.” She chuckles at that, a hand on his wrist as she kisses him. He threads a hand through her hair, feeling her shape, her form, her warmth, his Hawke. She draws him back down to the bed, still wrapped in her arms, her hand playing with stray strands of his hair.

She presses a kiss to his head, his arm wrapped around her waist and his face buried in her chest. It’s her gentle heartbeat that calms him more than anything else ever could. “You’re safe,” she whispers again, worried he’s forgotten it, as he closes his eyes. Yes, he was safe. With Hawke by his side, he feels more at peace than he thought he ever could. At home. Free.


	41. Brood (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Brood - To Think Alone"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

He looks over his shoulder. It’s familiar, doing this, back when he was running. Now, he looks over to see Hawke behind him, smiling as she talks with Merrill. He looks over his shoulder. There’s nothing at his back to fear. Not anymore. A low smile brushes over his face. Years and years of fear when he looked, that constant ringing of danger on his neck. She brushed it all away with a simple sweep of her hand.

Hawke hugs Merrill at the alienage, dropping a few coins into her palm. If Hawke couldn’t coax all of her friends to live with her, then she’d damn well make sure they were looked after. Hawke convinces Merrill to buy oranges, quickly while they’re in season. Isabela is next, a wave at the Hanged Man, laughter as Isabela makes vulgar motions between Hawke and Fenris. They walk back to Hightown hand in hand.

He stands at her doorway, her hand on his cheek, and her lips on his. _Just a moment, love_. She slips inside the estate, re-appearing without her armor and staff, a basket of food and books in her arms. She beams with a grin as they walk to his mansion. She helps to undo the clasps of his breastplate, the locks on his gauntlets. Freed from his armor, she runs her hands over his wrists, skin touching skin. He slept in his armor, once, night after night. Now he sleeps with her arms around him, armor for his heart.

She pulls a bottle of wine from the basket, winking at him as she shakes it and sets it on the table between them. Bread and cheese soon follow. They sit in separate chairs, across from each other, close enough for Hawke to shove her feet on either side of him. She’s slouched in her chair, chin almost at chest, elbows splayed on the armrest, book propped up on her belly, eyes quickly moving as she reads.

He has one hand on his own book, looking over the pages at her. His other hand rests on her leg. It’s quiet, peaceful. Where moments like these would have been spent pacing, tense, worried that Danarius might burst through his door, he can now relax. Danarius is long dead and buried. Hawke guards him. Her eyes flick up at him, catching him staring at her. He flushes as he drops his head back down to the book.

She laughs as she stands, moving over to him, her hands on his shoulder, pressing a small kiss to his forehead. She’s warm as always, that shock of fire running from his forehead, down his spine and he can’t help the smile that bubbles up with it. “Hawke,” he says softly. He didn’t have to be alone anymore, not if he didn’t want to be. He knows that whenever he looked over his shoulder, she would be there.


	42. Furtive (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Furtive - shifty, sneaky"  
> Fenris x Female Hawke

He doesn’t know what he’s done. She’s oddly quiet during their conversations, more often than not giving him poor excuses as to why she can’t come for dinner that night. He misses their late night talks. Their quiet reading huddled by the fire. She doesn’t walk with him through Hightown anymore. Instead, she stands at the doorway of her estate and says she’s sorry but maybe another night? So Fenris waits, and quietly wonders at what harm he’s caused her.

He catches her in the market one day, her arms full of things, but she sees him, turns red and half runs from him. She’s whispering to the others, an intense look on her face, a conversation which stops the moment he goes near. He stops going to the Hanged Man. If she won’t talk to him, what’s the point? Donnic tells him over cards that there’s nothing to worry about. If he’s so concerned then he should just ask her. Fenris just doesn’t know _how_. Danarius would let him know if he erred. Instantly and in detail. This, _this_ , was a different matter. He did not wish to make things worse. So he paces his stolen mansion and frets.

He tries to craft the perfect letter. He finds writing things down better than thinking them aloud. He goes through parchment after parchment, trying to find the best way to tell her he doesn’t know what he’s done. If she would just speak to him, tell him, he would never do anything like it again. He needs her by his side. Crumpled parchment litters the floor, ink stained across the table and never is it good enough. He’s taken off guard when she invites him to her estate.

He sits in the study, hands clenched in his lap, a frown on his face as he stares at his knees. She stands in front of him, rubbing her arm nervously. “Are you hungry?” she asks.

“Y-you are – cross with me?” He looks up at her, finding her gaze. Her eyes widen in surprise.

“I – what? No, no I’m not.”

“You have been _avoiding_ me.” She stops breathing for a moment, like all the breath has left her. Then her expression crumples and she runs a hand through her hair.

“Maker, I am such an idiot – wait here,” she’s running from him again, out of the room, her footsteps heavy on the stairs. She thumps back down, face red from hurrying, a box in her arms. She practically shoves it into his lap, and he stares into it, mystified.

“I was so – well, we never did nail down a real date for your birthday, did we? I got tired of it being a mess of deciding when it was every year so I figured we’d celebrate the day you joined us instead,” she’s rambling, her words hurried, as he looks through the box. A neat stack of books, all his favorite kind. Boxes of sweets and chocolates, wine to match. He pulls out a sweater, clearly hand made by an amateur, grey and soft, and one sleeve longer than the other.

“I am so shit at keeping secrets, and I was just so excited, we’ve been planning this for ages and I wanted to tell you so bad but I did want it to be a surprise. I really mucked it up though, didn’t I? I just wasn’t thinking. Oh Maker.” He stares at the sweater, at her as she paces, and his face slowly grows scarlet. The sweater is clenched in his hands, and he balls it close to his chest.

“You made this?” He asks.

“I know it’s awful, I could never get it just right –”

“It’s perfect,” he blurts out, putting the box beside him and rising to his feet, reaching out for her. She envelopes him in a tight hug, whispering her apologies, she hadn’t meant – and all Fenris can think about are those nights she spent making something by hand for him. How warm her hug is. How much he’s missed her. He smiles and pulls her into a deep kiss.

“The others will be here soon, you have to act surprised,” she tells him sternly, her forehead pressed against his.

“I am an excellent actor. I promise I’ll be shocked,” he tells her, the sweater still tight in his hands as she laughs.


	43. Dulcet (Merrill x Isabela)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Dulcet - sweet, sugary"  
> Merrill x Isabela

“Oh, I don’t know if we should,” Merrill says, her hand loose in Isabela’s. Isabela throws back her head and laughs, turning to clasp her other hand as well. She holds them both tightly as she grins at Merrill. Merrill’s cheeks are pink, her eyes darting around the dark street with worry.

“It’ll be fine, I promise. I’d never let my favorite elf get in trouble,” Isabela says. She turns back to lead her once again, pulling her along. She hums until she finds the shop she wants, letting go of Merrill’s hand to pull her lock picking kit from her pocket. She kneels before the door, tongue between her teeth as she works. Merrill stands beside her and cups her hands, creating a small light that shines through the cracks between her fingers. After a moment or two, the lock clicks open and Isabela stands triumphantly, while Merrill moves the ball of light to her shoulder.

The bell of the door chimes when Isabela opens it, and urges Merrill inside. Merrill’s magic illuminates the small shop, the shelves of goods, and Isabela racing to the back. “Aha!” She says as she holds a fork above her head. “Found one. Now, prepare for the best things you’ve ever tasted.” Merrill moves shyly to her side, as Isabela taps the fork against her lips as she decides which one should be first.

“Try this,” she says, holding the fork in her hands, a piece of cake at the end. Merrill opens her mouth obediently and Isabela grins as she feeds her. Merrill chews thoughtfully, and her eyes open wide, her fingers touching her lips as she hurries to swallow.

“It’s good!” Merrill’s cheeks are pink, beaming with delight. Isabela laughs as she brushes the crumbs away from the side of her mouth with a thumb.

“This one too kitten,” she says as she breaks off a piece of another pastry, presenting it towards her. This one is flaky, filled with apple and Merrill expresses the same happy sentiment, reaching for even more of it. They move down the shelf, pastry bite after pastry bite. “I can’t believe you’ve never had these before!”

“Oh, well, the Dalish have our own sweets, you know.”

“I know,” Isabela says, playing with one of Merrill’s braids. “Maker, you still have crumbs!” Isabela leans forward, the fork abandoned on the shelf as she cups Merrill’s face in her hands, and delicately kisses away the pastry crumbs at the corner of her mouth. “Mmm, you’re right, it is really good.” Even as Isabela begins to pull away, Merrill darts forward, her lips on hers, swallowing her in a deep kiss.

“I think… I think… you’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” Merrill says, and even manages a straight face for a few shocked seconds until, “oh Creators,” and she’s burying her face in her hands, hiding the crimson blush.

“My, my, kitten. I think I’m rubbing off on you,” Isabela laughs as she wraps her arms around her, pulling her close for a tight hug. “Don’t worry, you’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted as well.” Merrill’s face is pressed tight against her chest, her hands still over her face and Isabela begins to worry when her shoulders start to shake. For a moment, she thinks Merrill’s crying but then she hears the chuckle which grows into gleeful laughter.

Isabela joins her, the both of them practically falling over each other as they laugh until they hear footsteps upstairs.

“Who’s there?” A large booming voice, candlelight appearing on the stairs.

“Come on!” Isabela shouts, taking Merrill by the hand and dragging her out the door, still holding tight as they run away from the shop, the both of them breathless with laughter.


	44. Serendipity (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Serendipity – Finding something nice while looking for something else"  
> Fenris x Female Hawke

It’s nothing, he tells himself. A foolish mistake. Where was he looking to let a bandit get so close? As they walk back to Kirkwall, he tries to ignore the pain in his side. He had barely gotten pierced by the dagger before he sank his own blade into the man’s belly. A small cut, not worth the attention or mana of the mages. It’s only Hawke who pauses, waits for Fenris to catch up. She’s frowning, worried, asking him, “are you alright?” She whispers this to him, her hand warm on his arm.

He nods and tells her that he is fine, but that frown does not leave Hawke’s face. The others are chatting excitedly amongst themselves, Isabela stretching and mentioning that she’s in the mood for a good ale. He expects to be dragged along to the Hanged Man with them. Instead, when they reach the city, Hawke smiles and declines their invitation. “I promised Fenris some of my mother’s muffins. We should go get them before Dog decides to eat them for us.” The others laugh and wave themselves away.

Hawke immediately turns to Fenris, gripping his shoulders hard. “I know you’re injured, you can’t lie to me. Should we go to Anders?” Fenris is stunned for a moment, both by her proximity and the burning fierceness in her face and in her words. Protective. Worried. Caring. His mouth opens and closes uselessly, until he finally shakes his head no. “Then we’ll go to mine. You know I’m not as good as Anders at this, so expect it to hurt. You stubborn – ugh. Don’t hide injuries from me!” She’s frowning as she scolds him, clearly upset, but all he can do is smile.

She wraps an arm around his waist, helping him walk, take the stairs to Hightown. “Mother’s out at the De Launcet’s so we shouldn’t be disturbed,” Hawke tells him as she unlocks the door. He thinks she’ll bring him to the kitchen, but instead she’s practically hauling him up the stairs. She gently helps him sit on the floor by her bed, in front of the fire. “You’re shivering,” she murmurs as she pulls the blanket from her bed and wraps it around him. He’s surprised, he hadn’t noticed exactly how cold he felt.

She’s kneeling down over him, practically straddling him, still frowning as she works at the claps of his breastplate. She pulls it off, placing it beside them, and he wordlessly presents his wrists to her. She takes his meaning and helps him remove his gauntlets. One of his hands is sticky with blood, where he was pressing against the wound. “Fenris, I need to see it. Can I take this off?” She asks this with her hands on the buttons of his tunic. He nods, and she swiftly unbuttons it and pulls it back.

He’s grateful that her eyes do not linger on his markings. Instead, she finds the wound and winces. She settles herself down, her weight light on him, moving even closer. She puts one hand on his cheek, her thumb brushing against his cheekbones. “Fenris, I’m going to start,” she warns, and he grimaces as she places her hand over the wound. “Tell me to stop if it hurts too much.” Her eyes never leave his the entire time. Her magic is fire, burning through him, and he sharply inhales as he feels flesh knitting itself back together.

His hands move to grip her thighs, looking for something to hold. They move, traveling up her thigh to her waist, one remaining there but the other moving higher still. She moves forward, her forehead pressing against hers as he pulls her in even closer. He can feel her hand fluttering on his cheek, moving to the back of his neck. “I’m almost done,” she whispers, and he finds that with Hawke this close, he barely notices the pain.

He wasn’t supposed to stay in Kirkwall this long. He meant to find what was in the chest, flush out Danarius, and if he was not there – move on. But she’d asked if he’d stay and he’d found himself agreeing. Now he didn’t know if he could ever leave. He barely realizes it when she finishes, her hand moving up past his chest to rest on his shoulder. He’s concentrating instead on the flush in her cheeks, the way she licks her lips.

He was no great poet. He could barely find words to voice his own feelings to himself. Instead, when he moves forward, his nose touching hers, he looks to her for permission. She gives it by closing her eyes, closing the distance between them. Her lips are as warm as her magic, soft and perfect, and her hand slides into his hair slowly. He wraps an arm around her, pulling her closer, the other hand still on her back as they kiss. They’re pushing into each other, fighting for more, more, more, until she gasps and pulls away. She whispers to him, “I’m sorry, are you sure –” He silences her with another kiss.


	45. Leaving (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "It doesn't matter, I'm not leaving you"  
> Fenris x Female Hawke

“They’ll catch up,” she gasps to him, her fist wound in the front of his shirt, clinging to him as he carries her on his back. He’s running as fast as he can, his sword discarded… somewhere, while Hawke’s staff is shattered and broken. She’s pale, holding onto him with all her strength, and he can feel the wet of her blood on his back. “Fenris, they’ll catch up.” His fingers dig into her thighs as he holds her.

“Fenris, Fenris, you have to put me down, you have to leave me –”

“Shut up Hawke,” he snaps, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

“Please Fen, they can’t have you, I can buy you time.”

“It doesn’t matter, I’m not leaving you,” he shouts at her, holding onto her tightly. He can hear them shrieking behind them. They’re close, too close. He tries to ignore the burning in his lungs, the ache in his legs, and the panic as her head drops to his shoulder.

“M’sorry,” her words are so quiet he can barely hear them, “love you, Fen.” Fenris, Fenris, Fenris. She’s whispering his name and he hears it with each heavy step, urging him forward. He nearly stops in his tracks when her murmuring stops. Instead he pushes himself harder. Close, close, close, he runs yelling into the Inquisition camp.

“Red Templars! Just behind!” They all bolt to their feet, swords in hand. “Healer! I need a healer!” A soldier points to a hut on the hill and Fenris is running again, fire in his throat as he climbs. A woman screams when he goes barging in, but she soon collects herself, pointing to the bed. Fenris deposits Hawke as gently as possible, her eyes fogged and unfocused, squinting as she looks at him.

He sets her head down on the pillow, brushing away hair from her face, his hands on her cheeks. “Hawke. Look at me, stay with me.” One of her arms raises, reaching for his face. It never quite gets there. “Hawke!”

* * *

He’s kneeling by the bed, his arms crossed, his head resting against them. “Fenris.” His head shoots up immediately, leaning over the bed, reaching for her. His relief bleeds into anger.

“ _Fasta vass_ Hawke! Don’t you ever tell me to leave you behind!” She smiles, reaching for him, pulling his head down close to hers.

“I’m sorry Fenris. Forgive me?” She presses her lips to his. “Forgive me.” She kisses him deeply, her hand threading through his hair. “Forgive me.” He’s crawling into the bed beside her, holding her tightly to him. “Forgive me.” His hand brushes against her cheek as he kisses her. “Forgive me.”


	46. Thinking About It (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Have you ever thought about… like… us?"  
> Anders x Female Hawke

“You are the squishy mage, you stay behind me,” Hawke says as she ties the ribbon around his hand, “Maker’s breath, you damn near gave me a heart attack.” They’re both exhausted, empty bottles of lyrium potions strewn at his feet. Enough mana to heal them, but saving none of it for himself. So, Anders sits on that rock and lets Hawke kneel before him, tying the bandage. His staff is shattered, broken where wood met metal.

He’d jumped in front of her, thinking she didn’t see the bandit to her left. He’d raised his staff and watched it break, cutting his hand. Then she was grabbing at his collar, dragging him behind her as she thrust forward with her sword. He’s smiling, she’s still swearing as she ties the bandage into a neat little knot. “Andraste’s tits Anders, don’t you ever do that again,” she scolds as she stands.

She extends her hand towards his uninjured one, and he takes it as she helps him to his feet. He breaks into laughter as she’s still swearing as they walk back to Kirkwall. “Don’t laugh, you asshole. I was concerned! Maker, my heart still feels like it’s about to leap out of my chest,” she says, pressing a hand over her breastplate. He stops laughing at that.

“You worry about me that much?” He asks. She whirls, turning to face him, her hands on his shoulders, practically shaking him.

“Of course I do!” She seems surprised at the question, surprised that he would even ask it. “Have you ever doubted that I care?” At that, she seems genuinely hurt. He puts a hand on her arm and shakes his head.

“No, I just – never mind.”

“Anders, whatever it is, you can tell me,” she says, stepping closer to him, her hands still on his shoulders. She’s so questioning, so _beautiful_ and all he can think about is what he needs to do. His plan, his mission. It would be a disaster, he’s sure of it, if he ever told her… But still, he can’t helping thinking about her. Had she ever thought about it? About them together? She cocks her head at him.

“Anders?”

He laughs, brushing off her touch, “it’s nothing. I’m starving. I hope the mystery soup has pork in it today,” he says, continuing to walk again. She pauses for a moment before running to catch up with him.

“What was in it last week? It looked disgusting.”

“But tasted delicious.”

“I need to buy you better food. Up your standards a little bit,” she chuckles.


	47. Alone (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Hawke defending Fenris when Danarius comes for him"  
> Fenris x Female Hawke

It’s silent. Empty. Her stomach turns and she knows this will not end well. He’s so determined, desperate, she doesn’t want to be the one to sever his chance at reconnecting with his sister. The trap is in the way Varania stands, the way she sighs, her hands knitting together and her eyes downcast. She calls him by a different name and Hawke thinks she might throw up. She wants to scream, to yell, to warn him but _Maker_ , he says he remembers her. He’s putting the puzzle pieces back together and she wouldn’t be the one to smash it all apart again.

She’s drifting, looking, and watching him out of the corner of her eye. She shares a glance with the others. They feel it too. Fenris is the only one who’s blind to it. She hears the footsteps, heavy armor walking through the upstairs halls. Guards. She races back to his side, wrapping a hand around his wrist. “Fenris,” is all she has time to say before he starts descending.

“Ah, my little Fenris. Predictable as always.” She watches as his eyes widen, horrified. His hopes for his family are lost, shredded to pieces. He takes an involuntary step back as Danarius steps forward. She immediately takes Fenris’s place, shielding him behind her. Her staff is in her hands, knuckles white as she grips it, glaring at the magister. Fenris is yelling at Varania, indistinct words, and she keeps her hand around his wrist, holding it tightly.

“And this is your new master, then? The Champion of Kirkwall? Impressive,” Danarius’s words are slime, disgusting and full of malice. He means to sow a seed of distrust, of doubt, against her.

But “Fenris doesn’t belong to anyone,” and she hopes that Fenris knows that. She’s bristling, shaking with rage, the foci of her staff already glowing with the magic flowing through her. She turns to Fenris, her hand moving to his, and she fixes him with a determined gaze. “Say the word and we’ll kill this bastard.” Fenris looks at her for a moment, and then, he nods.

Fenris has never seen her so angry. Her magic was always water, flowing and cool, but here she is all fire and metal, casting with little effort, focusing her ire at his former master. Her teeth are gritted, and she’s stuck on a furious growl, and she – apostate, untrained, unfocused – is pushing back Danarius. He’s sweating as he desperately casts defensive spells, trying to keep himself safe from her assault.

Fenris and the others are making quick work of the guards, working their way towards the center, working their way towards Hawke and Danarius. She beats into his barrier, hard fists of stone, and the electricity crackles between her fingertips. She fights with wild abandon, and Fenris feels it wash over him. He sees the destruction she is causing, but to him, there is only her warmth.

She breaks his barrier with a cry, stalking forward even as she calls “Fenris!” He’s at her side in an instant, and the bloodied and beaten magister is crawling backwards away from them.

“No – please – I am your _master_!” The wrong thing to say. Hawke strikes him docile with the butt of her staff, allowing Fenris to wrap his hands around his throat and drag him to his feet.

“You are no longer my master,” he snarls, before sharply breaking Danarius’s neck. He barely knows what happens after. Everything is a blur – the disbelief, the betrayal, the blood. When he comes to, Hawke’s arms are around him, one hand gently threading through his hair.

“You’re not alone,” she whispers, “I’m here. I’m here.” He buries his face into the crook of her neck, his arms around his waist. “I’m here.” The warmth he found in her magic he now finds in the way she holds him, fire chasing every word. _I am yours_.


	48. Just a Bit (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Something cute with rogue Hawke and Fenris"  
> Female Hawke x Fenris

He’s watching her curiously, his nose twitching at the smoke that goes up from whatever she is crafting. Her tongue is trapped between her teeth, brow knit in concentration. He’s sitting on the couch, cross-legged, his hands on his ankles as he watches her at her desk, hunched over potion and poison. She has a stopped filled with green liquid and she takes care to drop one – only one – single drop into the vial in her hands.

She breaks into a brilliant grin at her victory, sighing with relief and leaning back in her chair as the liquid in the vial turns orange, and she promptly corks it, setting it aside with all the others. “Which one is that?” Fenris asks.

“This one is arcane poison. It’ll make Merrill’s and Anders’s spells pack a little extra punch on whoever I cut,” she says, as she puts down the stopper. “Do you want to help?” Fenris stands, cautiously walking to her desk. He examines the different liquids, powders, vials and looks at Hawke and shrugs.

“This is not my area of expertise,” he tells her.

“It’ll be easy, come’re,” she says, rising from her chair and gesturing for him to sit. She leans over him, her chin on his shoulder and her arms around him as she points. “So take that one, yeah, the empty one. Okay, now just a pinch of this one over here… yep! Just like that. You’re a natural.” He’s uneasy still as he follows her instructions to the letter, knowing the substances she works with.

“Okay, last thing, I swear,” she straightens, and partially backs away from the chair. “A little bit of the green liquid. Just a touch.” The instant the liquid meets the powders, Fenris is met with a small explosion, blasting over his face. Behind him, Hawke is doubled over with laughter, practically falling against the wall as she struggles to hold herself up.

“Your face! You should see your face!” It’s dusted with ash, his white hair blown back and sticking out wildly. The ash does not hide the growing crimson in his cheeks as he sits straight as a board, his hands clenched into fists.

“You’re a dead woman,” he warns, giving her a moment to collect herself and begin running. He’s off chasing her soon after (an easy thing to follow her laughter), and scoops her up in his arms. She’s still laughing, struggling to escape his grasp as he throws her over his shoulder and carries her up the stairs. He deposits her rather ungracefully on the bed and immediately stretches out over her.

“You evil,” he kisses her cheek, “vile,” her forehead, “cruel,” her jaw, “woman,” her lips. When he pulls back, her face is now dusted in the ash as well. She gives him an apologetic smile.

“I couldn’t resist a bit of fun.” He growls as she’s struck by renewed laughter when his hands find her sides, tickling her without mercy.


	49. Of Course (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“Of course I love you.” + “Don’t you ever do that again!” During mark of the assassin or legacy"  
> Female Hawke x Fenris

“Look out!” The cry comes moments before he feels a hard hand on his arm, shoving him away. Fenris turns deftly on his feet, not falling but still moved, just in time to see Hawke get clipped by the bronto that’s charging through. She does fall, not at all gracefully, landing face down in the dirt. He watches from the corner of his eye as she slowly curls into a ball, her hands on her head. The rest of his focus is on the still rampaging bronto.

Varric fires one of his trick arrows, the rope wrapping around its two front legs, bringing into a halt. Isabela dowses her daggers in poison, burying them into the bronto’s hide, slowing it even further and making it scream with rage. It’s silenced when Fenris plunges his sword into its heart, killing it instantly. Just as quickly, he’s turning back to Hawke, plucking a health potion from his belt, kneeling by her side. “Hawke,” he says, pulling at one of her arms, helping her sit up. She leans against his chest, wincing as she moves, the muscles torn in her side. He holds her up with one hand, practically crushing her against him.

“Drink this,” he says, uncorking the potion and raising it to her lips. “Please, Hawke.”

“Awe, you do care,” her words are soft and she smiles weakly.

“Of course I –” _love you_. She drinks the potion without complaint, and Fenris pours the rest on her side. She hisses at that, her wound beginning to smoke as it knits back together. His free hand moves away the blood and torn cloth, brows furrowed as he watches it heal. Hawke makes a noise of contentment, her eyes closed, wrapping a hand over his shoulders, resting at the back of his neck. Her fingers scratch in a lazy pattern, playing with the ends of his hair.

He helps her to her feet as she pouts her lip looking at her ripped robes. “Blast, I just bought these too,” she says. Fenris puts his hands on her shoulders, digging into her as he practically shakes her.

“Don’t you ever do that again!” he snaps, fixing her with a furious glare. “I can take hits, you cannot!”

“Oh come on, I thought I took it like a champion.” He hears Varric snort behind them.

“ _Hawke_.”


	50. Something Bright (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Cute and fluffy FenHawke"  
> Female Hawke x Fenris

She shakes him awake, her hands on his shoulders. He comes to with a start, shooting upwards in the bedroll. She presses a finger to her lips, “shh,” and then she smiles. She stands, and extends her hand towards him. Fenris takes it, and Hawke helps him rise to his feet. She keeps hold of his hand as they tip-toe around sleeping dwarves and the other humans brought along for the Deep Roads expedition. She leads him away from the camp, down a winding tunnel.

“I found something I wanted to show you,” she says quietly from in front of him, tossing a smile over her shoulder. Her hand is tight on his and he squeezes it just slightly when he sees the flash of her grin.

“Where are we going?” He asks, still shaking the sleep from his voice.

“You’ll see.” Her voice echoes in the tunnels. She leads him down a narrower path, tight enough that they must turn their bodies and squeeze through sideways. When they emerge, it is a small cave, with glittering stones that blink like stars scattered in the overhead rocks. She moves to sit, dragging him down with her, tight beside her. Her head rests on his shoulder, their arms linked, hands still wrapped together.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she sighs this, looking up at the stones. They are blue, sparkling, brilliant. Fenris looks not at the stones, but at Hawke. At the way her eyes shine brighter than any finely cut stone, at the freckles on her face. At the way stray wisps of hair cross her forehead, the messy way it is tucked behind her ear. He focuses on her smile, at the wonder and happiness contained inside it.

“Indeed,” he says, still looking at her.


	51. Safety (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?”  
> Female Hawke x Anders

“You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?” Varric asks, taking a swig of ale, his eyebrows raised at Hawke. She’s sitting at one end of the table, elbow firmly planted, and her chin resting in her palm as she makes doe-eyes at Anders. The mage doesn’t notice her attentions, lost in some argument with Isabela about cards. Hawke makes a questioning grunt as she turns her gaze to Varric.

“I’m just saying. Your house is going to be the number one stop for runaway mages. Templars are going to be a regular occurrence, I can feel it,” Varric says, taking another drink as her brows knit and she turns back to watching Anders. Since he’d moved into her estate, he’s been looking better, happier. No longer just skin and bones. The dark circles under his eyes are slowly disappearing.

She smiles bleakly in his direction as she studies him, the way he laughs, the way his arms move when he speaks. The way he leans over the table and grins, brushing an errant strand of hair behind his ears. She knows this Anders. And now she knows the Anders that wakes with a sparkle in his eye, a soft whisper of love on his lips as touches her. The Anders that puts magic in his touch when he rubs her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple. The passionate Anders who goes over his manifesto, determination in his voice, a hopefulness that things can change.

“I’m in this relationship for _him_ and if his cause comes with him, then so be it,” Hawke says, her eyes flicking back to Varric. She reaches out and takes his mug, stealing a sip of her own, before passing it back to him.

“Blondie’s going to get in trouble soon, I can feel it,” Varric grumbles.

“I’ll keep him safe,” she says. Across the table, Anders’s eyes catch hers. He breaks into a brilliant smile under her gaze, and she can’t help but smile back.


	52. Clothes (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “My parents are coming over in 10 minutes so please put some clothes on”  
> Female Hawke x Fenris

“Please, I need to, I can’t take this – please,” she gasps, her face tilted into the pillow, holding tightly to it with her hands. Her face is flushed, her hair stuck to the sweat on her forehead. She writhes in his grasp as he smirks between her legs.

“Patience Hawke,” Fenris says, making her squeeze her eyes closed and moan as his tongue touches her clit. Her whole body shakes as if jolted by electricity, sensitive after being brought to the brink so many times. She’s hanging on the edge and Fenris will not let her fall. He holds tightly to her thighs, the heels of her feet digging into his back.

“I’ve been patient!” She complains, her back arching off the bed as his tongue teases at her entrance. She’s slick with her wet, tasting faintly of strawberries, and Fenris ignores her complaints as he closes his eyes and flicks his tongue. His hand moves, over her lower belly, his thumb gently massaging her clit. One of her hands snaps down to his head as she gasps, grinding against him, fucking herself with his mouth. He’s more than happy to oblige her. His cock is trapped against the mattress, dripping with pre-cum from their teasing.

Her hand drapes across her eyes, her cheeks reddening even more as she says, “I need you inside me.” He looks up at that, pulling away from her, wiping the wet away from his mouth with a swipe of his arm. He settles himself on his knees, a hand in the valley between her breasts, rubbing the underside of his cock against her. Her legs lock around his waist, and he can feel them shaking with each slow thrust he makes against her sensitive flesh.

“I didn’t quite catch that,” he tells her smugly, feeling her heavy breath underneath his palm, the way her heart races. She props herself up on her elbows, looking at him with a stubborn expression, like a child that’s been denied their treat. She looks away from him when she speaks.

“Please Fenris, I need you inside of me,” she says in a low voice. He smirks, and reaches for her.

“Come here,” he says, pulling her towards him, until she’s on her knees as well. She wraps her arms around his neck, resting on his shoulders, breathing into his ear, his hands on her ass. He guides her downwards, enjoying the mewling sounds she makes as he slowly lowers her onto his cock. His hand flutters, travels up her spine as she begins to move, rocking against him, her fingers squeezing against his shoulders.

She leans back, holding tight to his shoulders as she rides him, giving him a good view of her breasts moving with her. Nipples red and swollen from his earlier attentions, he holds her ass a little harder. Kept so long on the edge, it does not take her long to come. Her cries fade into silence, biting her bottom lip with her eyes squeezed shut, focusing on the sensation. Her cunt clenches in waves around his hard length, her toes curling, body shaking, and he can’t help the guttural groan that escapes him.

She pulls herself back in, her forehead on his shoulder, breathing deeply. He’s close, so close. He turns his head and bites her earlobe, suckling at it, kissing her cheek, turning her face, burying his tongue inside her mouth. Her hand flutters at the back of his neck as they shift, noses bumping against each other as their tongues fight for dominance. Yes, he’s going to – they hear a door click a floor below them and, “Hawke, honey! I’m home!” Hawke practically falls off of him, slipping backwards with a panicked expression.

“It’s my mother,” she says in a fierce whisper. “Put your clothes on, you have to leave, now!” She springs up from the bed, collecting their clothes from around the room, throwing each of them at him. “Oh god, you’re going to have to go out the window. She can’t see you!”

“But what about –” he points downwards, at his cock covered in pre-cum and her slick, red and aching, desperate for release. She moves back to the bed, and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Payback’s a bitch.”


	53. The Warden (Carver & F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “Do you think you could just please go one day without pissing me off?”  
> Carver & Hawke

It’s a scratch. It’s nothing. The barest lick of a wound on the inside of his arm. It could almost be a paper cut. It’s turning purple but… It’s nothing. They eat at their makeshift campfire, kept lit by Hawke’s magic, the shadows dancing on rock walls. Almost at the surface, Varric is sure. Anders says he’s ready to start kissing individual blades of grass. Hawke laughs. Carver rubs his arm.

They fight more darkspawn in the morning. It’s almost routine now. They’re around every corner, behind every wall, screeching to a god that can’t hear them. His stance is perfect. His form, flawless. His strength, weakened. Hawke gives him a questioning glance when he lowers his sword to the ground, tip resting against stone, breathing heavily, and sweat covering his brow. He feels a wash of her magic run over him, and that does make him feel better – for the moment.

His dreams turn to nightmares. He dreams of darker tunnels than the ones he’s currently in, trapped and calling, a song that sounds like home. Fitful sleep turns to no sleep at all. Instead, he sits by dying embers and looks at the veins that are turning black. It’s a scratch. It’s supposed to be nothing. He doesn’t want to die without seeing the sky again.

He thinks he can make it. Varric is so sure – the surface is a few steps away, just a few more. He can make it. He just needs a break. Just a small break. He just needs to sit down, that’s all. He falls instead. He sees the panic in her eyes as she races towards him, falling to her knees, her hand wound into the tunic on his chest, his head in her arms.

“It’s the blight,” Anders says quietly. No, no, it’s just a scratch. It’s nothing. Hawke’s hand shakes. She glares at Anders, eyes bright and shiny and tells him to save her brother. Anders shakes his head. “No cure for the blight. Unless…”

“Anything,” she says. Carver leans on her heavily, his arm over her shoulder. They race through the deep roads, Hawke whispering small things in his ear. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you. We’re almost there.

“If the boy comes, he comes now. And you may not see him again,” the Grey Warden tells them. Her grip on his arm, around his waist, tightens.

“At least I won’t have to see your ugly mug again,” Carver tells Hawke weakly. She looks at him, aghast, before weakly laughing.

“You think you could go one day without pissing me off?” She asks. “Never.” He looks over his shoulder as the Grey Wardens haul him away. She’s rooted to the stone, staff gripped tight in her hands, the worry still plain on her face. The farther away he gets, the more she sways on the spot, as if contemplating running after him. He looks away.


	54. Demons (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Hawke being tricked by a demon that looks like Fenris"  
> Female Hawke x Fenris

The days are emptier in Fenris’s absence. He knows her knocks. He doesn’t come to the door. When she sends Varric, or Isabela, he always turns down the jobs. She stops knocking. She stops sending. Hawke waits. And waiting is agony. Worrying is agony. Forgive me, he told her when he left, but he refuses to forgive himself. He won’t see her. She just doesn’t want him to leave Kirkwall. Waiting is agony but losing him completely would be even worse.

So when he comes to her in casual clothes with a bottle of wine and dinner, she stands speechless at the doorway. Her mouth gapes open and closed uselessly, and he shifts on his feet and frowns. “May I… come in?” Fenris asks finally. She steps out of the way without a sound. He goes to the kitchen, places the wine on the table. He pulls out two glasses, two plates, and begins to dish out food. Chicken, corn, potatoes. All still warm, still steaming, freshly cooked. He pulls her chair out for her. He pushes it in for her when she sits.

Hawke takes a few cursory bites, a sip of the wine, before finally, “are you trying to bribe me with food?” His face turns the slightest shade of crimson at her question.

“Perhaps,” he says. “I have been – an ass. I assumed food would, ah, aid in asking your forgiveness.” Her chuckle starts small. It’s a smile hidden under her hand, a grin that spreads until her head is thrown back in full-fledged laughter.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” she says as she comes down from it. “But I’ve already forgiven you. Maker, Fenris, I forgave you the moment you left. I _understand_. All of it.” She watches as he rolls through emotions. Surprise, embarrassment, shame, acceptance, grim determination. He rises so quickly from his chair that it clatters to the floor behind him. She’s barely out of her chair when he’s on her, arms around her so hard that they lose their balance and end up on the floor.

He rises above her, white hair framing his face, green eyes looking frantically into hers. “I was such a fool. I thought that if I distanced myself, it would be better. It is not better. Being apart from you… it is a torture I cannot abide. You said that we could see it through together. I would like that. I would like that very much.” She reaches up, smiling as her hands touch his cheeks. His kiss is tender, gentle, questioning and she answers it with a firm yes, pulling him even closer.

Her hand winds into his hair, one hand on his back, their noses brushing as he shifts their kiss. His hair tickles across her forehead and she smiles at the sensation. She welcomes the hand that reaches downwards, finds the knot on the belt of her robes. His skin is cool against hers, butterflies churning in her stomach as it makes its way upwards. It stops at her breast, and he pulls his face away.

“Filthy mage,” he snarls, “what does magic touch that it doesn’t spoil?” His markings ignite. His fist plunges into her chest. He pulls out her heart, clutched in his hand, blood on his face, and the last thing she sees is his sneer.

She shoots up in bed, drenched in cold sweat. Her hands pull at her robes, push at her chest, and feels the heart that still beats underneath her skin. She stumbles from her bed, teeth chattering together in equal parts cold and fear. Her knees are weak, she can barely stand. She holds onto the mantle of the fireplace, its embers long gone cold. When she finds the strength to stand, she barely knows where her feet are taking her. She walks mechanically, without thought.

She finds herself at his mansion, moon high in the sky, her forehead pressed against his door. Silent tears drop onto the stone below, and her knocks are weak, barely making any noise at all. Somehow, he hears it anyway. “Hawke, what is –” he opens the door, hair ruffled from sleep, his voice still thick with it. She simply walks forward, her head on his shoulder, her hands slowly winding their way around him, fisting into the back of his tunic. He wastes no time in wrapping his arms around her, warm hands, warm skin, and it’s the heat she’s longed for. He strokes through her hair, rubs small circles onto her back.

“I’m here,” he says softly. She closes her eyes and allows herself to simply be held. It’s not enough to erase the pain of his leaving, but it’s enough to wipe away the nightmare. Somehow they would find their way back to each other.


	55. Model Behavior (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [this picture](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/151323026034)  
> Male Hawke x Fenris

He bothers people. That's what Hawke does. He badgers them until they become friends. For Fenris, he had an ulterior motive. A handsome elf drinking coffee by himself? A crime. So Hawke had sat himself down, with a coffee of his own, and threw self-deprecating humor and childish flirtations at him until he laughed. Better than any sound, Fenris's laugh was the warmth on a cold day. The elf had covered his hand with his mouth, but he couldn't hide the blush on his cheeks, the subtle red at the tip of his ears. It was a miracle that Hawke was able to pry away his number.

He took Fenris out to dinner. A hole-in-the-wall, a hidden gem, Fenris had no idea where Hawke was taking him. A secret place, Hawke said, only for those that dared date the magnificent Hawke. That laugh again, liquid warmth in his bones. He filled him up with as much spaghetti he could hold, and the talk came easy over wine. Somehow, someway, Hawke discovered something better than the laugh. The kiss was small, chaste, a promise of better things to come. Fenris on his toes, a hand on Hawke’s chest to steady him, those green eyes looking up with more fire than Hawke had ever seen in his life.

Movies. Shows. More dinner. Everything and anything, any excuse Hawke can find to take Fenris out. The kisses grow, heated and dangerous, roving hands and whispered promises. Fenris runs his hand through Hawke’s beard, lips still red and raw. Hawke says that touching the beard is a privilege he gives to only a select few. Himself, and Fenris. Fenris laughs, he blushes, and he plants a kiss that sends chills down Hawke’s spine.

It isn’t until the night that Hawke decides he’s going to invite Fenris over to his place that he uncovers his secret. Not secret, necessarily, merely information Fenris had never mentioned. Hawke had thoroughly cleaned his place (deep-cleaned the carpets because, oh Maker, just in case), and headed out to buy drinks. Everything is better with drinks right? What was Fenris’s favorite again? Agreedo Pavalay?

He stands at the checkout by the magazine rack, waiting for the old woman to go through her spreadsheet of coupons. His eyes glaze over, unfocused, looking at nothing, until they settle on – _no way_. Instantly alert, focused, he sees Fenris – green eyes lustful, lips open, hair wild, hand splayed on his stomach – on the cover of a magazine. He practically rips it off the shelf, staring at in disbelief.

When he goes to pay, he also buys three of the magazines. When Fenris arrives, Hawke is at the door, beaming, and a magazine in hand. “You said you were in photography you lying minx!” He exclaims. Fenris shuffles on his feet, his face red, ears down, looking sheepishly at Hawke.

“I did not mean to lie to you… I just – ”

“Fuck you’re amazing,” Hawke is breathless as the magazine falls from his grip, instead taking Fenris’s face in his hands and pulling him into a rough kiss. “Amazing, amazing, amazing.” A kiss follows each word and soon enough Fenris is laughing into each one, his arms around Hawke.


	56. Blade of Mercy (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Hawke presenting Fenris with the blade of mercy (enchanted with fire runes)"  
> Female Hawke x Fenris

She rolls out of his grasp, taking the sheet with her as her hands plant on the ground, the bottom half of her still on the bed. “Hawke,” he asks, “What are you doing?” There’s dry amusement in his voice as he lies on his side, elbow on the pillow, and head on his hand.

“I have something for you!” He hears her voice cheerful and echoed, her head clearly planted against the floor. She kicks at the blanket, exposing her feet, and he hears distinct thumping as she roots around for… whatever it is. She hauls herself back up to the bed with a grunt, her face red from being upside down, but a smile plastered on her face as she presents the wrapped gift to him.

“Have you been keeping a sword under our bed?” Fenris asks as he sits up, placing it on his lap. She turns thoughtful, and then frowns.

“I don’t know if it’s better to say yes or no to that.” He laughs, reaching out and lightly touching her cheek. The smile returns, and her hands fiddle with the ribbon tied around it. She opens the white sheet and Fenris’s eyes widen.

“This is a blade of mercy.” He runs his fingers over the blade, then picks it up slowly. He finds it balanced and weighted, finely crafted. “I never thought to see one outside of the Imperium.” She bites her bottom lip, kneeling and leaning towards him, putting her hand over his.

“I know you aren’t fond of Tevinter, but I still thought you might like it.”

“Danarius coveted these. They were given to those who performed great service for the Imperium. That he lies dead and I possess one is… amusing, to say the least,” he says. “Thank you Hawke.”

She grins, sitting back with her legs crossed, one elbow on each knee, cradling her face. “I had Sandal enchant it with fire runes so you can set people on _fire_.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief and Fenris is quick to put the sword on the floor, before scooping her back up into his arms.


	57. Moving (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something sweet for a friend  
> Female Hawke x Anders

It doesn’t take him long to pack. He only has enough things to fill one small bag. He clutches it in his hand as he walks from Darktown to Hightown. No one bothers him. Enough people know him and know he has nothing worth stealing. Even so, he holds it tight. His knuckles barely brush her door before she’s swinging it open, grabbing him by the coat and pulling him through, her lips on his. “You made it!” Her eyes sparkle as she steadies him back on his feet. “Welcome home,” she says. Anders’s face instantly turns a deep shade of red.

“Maker’s breath Hawke, I haven’t even really moved in yet,” he says. She laughs brightly.

“Are these all your things?” She asks, her hands brushing over the bag.

“It’s not much – they won’t take up much space.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she says as she pulls him from the foyer to the living room. “But less things do mean I have more reason to spoil you.” He stops in his tracks.

“I don’t want -” to be a burden, a bother, anything to make her regret her offer. She kisses him, swallowing up his words, silencing him instantly.

“I want you here, Anders. With me,” she tells him. He drops his head to her shoulder, bag still clutched tight in his hands.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. She chuckles, her hands drifting over his shoulders, resting on his back.

“I am going to make you so fat,” she says and he can’t help the laughter that escapes him. “Seriously! I made cupcakes for breakfast.” The bag drops to the floor as he wraps his arms around her waist, lifting her up, feet dangling in the air. The bag that was so protected was suddenly so meaningless. He had everything he’d ever wanted, ever needed, ever dreamed of, in his arms.


	58. Sleeping Words (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Shh... I'm sleeping"  
> Female Hawke x Fenris

The fire is dying, soft embers casting low light across the room. He’s unused to it still, sharing space, not being alone. Hawke lies on her belly, her face in the pillow, hands fisted by her side, a leg tangled up in his. An even stranger thing to him is touch. He reaches out, the first fingertip landing on her shoulder blade, the rest of his hand coming to rest. Fenris touches because he wants to, not because he is ordered to. He moves across her back, warm from her own human heat, until he comes to her spine.

He shifts himself closer to her, careful not to disturb, as his hand moves over each small bump. He finds pleasure in the dip of her back, the curve of her waist, the way her fingers twitch with sleep. He presses a kiss to her shoulder, and keeps his face close to her. She smells of lavender and sunshine, the wind blowing through leaves, the delight of rolling in grass.

He brushes hair from her face, smiling as he watches her nose twitch at the sensation. She breathes quietly, that gentle rising and falling, and he thinks there is no better sound. He lies down fully, his head close to hers, his hand still on her back. He presses his forehead against hers and closes his eyes. The words escape him, whispered and scarcely audible. _Kadan, amatus, my love, my love_.

He barely realizes he’s pulling himself closer, his hand pressing to her back, his nose against hers, until he feels her hand upon his chest. “Fenris,” she says, hoarse from sleep, her eyes barely open. “What is it?”

“Nothing. I am merely talking to myself,” he says, thankful she cannot see his face flush red in the darkness. She grunts, moving herself into his embrace, curling into the crook of his arm.

“Well shh, I’m sleeping,” she murmurs. He chuckles and presses a kiss to her forehead, holding her tightly.

“My apologies,” he tells her.

He thinks she’s asleep again when he hears that soft rising and falling, until, “I love you too.” It’s spoken into his chest, light and muffled, and he nearly stops breathing when he hears it. He holds her closer, his fingers moving through her hair. It is a strange thing to touch, to love. He would learn.


	59. Here and Now (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I can't believe you'd do something like this!"  
> Fenris x Female Hawke

The Herald’s Rest is no Hanged Man. For one, it’s clean. Mugs are shining and polished, floors unstained, occupants civil and the artwork doesn’t have any fat dwarves. It should be an improvement. Instead, Hawke drinks the ale – that actually tastes like ale – and the smile on her face is faked, forced. She’s melancholic but the Inquisitor and their companions are loud and rowdy, celebrating their latest victory. She’s still fighting. She’s not quite sure what victory feels like.

She watches the lightest touches between the group. Shoulder against shoulder, a hand over another, wrapping an arm over a shoulder. These are touches she recognizes. Isabela with her arms around Merrill, Anders leaning into Sebastian, Fenris’s hand over hers. But Isabela, Merrill, Anders, Sebastian and Fenris aren’t here. She looks at Varric sitting across the table, laughing as he makes the Seeker sputter.

She runs a hand through her hair, resting an elbow on the table, and the conversations simply blur into one unidentifiable noise. She aches to be home, with her friends, drinking and gambling, their staffs and knives all put away. She should be leaving for Weisshaupt soon. Alone, on the road, away from all these reminders.

The door behind her bursts open, cold wind from the mountain air on her back, as a guard runs through, racing to the Inquisitor’s side. Whispered words in their ear, frowning as they turn to Varric. A short conversation before Varric is laughing again. “Hey birdie!” He shouts down the table to her. “You’re in trouble!” Hawke frowns, sitting up, cocking her head with a wordless question. The answer comes from behind her.

“ _Hawke_.” She stiffens instantly. She turns slowly, scarcely believing what she was hearing. He stands in the doorway, covered in furs and snow. His hair is longer, tied back in the messiest ponytail she’s ever seen. His nose is red with cold, and he is frowning with such pointed fury. She stands just as slowly, even as he’s marching towards her.

“I can’t believe you would do something like this! A note? After all these years, all you gave me was a note?” His words sink down to her core, that low growl that rattles around in her ribs. He’s ranting, his hands moving with each and every syllable, and she can’t help stepping towards him. “Do you know how worried I was when I found you gone?” She reaches out and her fingertips find his cheeks. He’s cold from that mountain wind, but growing warmer.

She has both hands on him now, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones. “Hawke,” he says, his face crumbling, “I did not mean to make you cry,” she doesn’t even realize she is crying, “I only wanted – _fenhedis_ , I thought I would never see you again.” Her hands move, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling herself closer, his arms around her waist.

“Fenris,” she breathes, “you’re here.” He holds her tighter as she buries her face in the crook of his neck, sniffling into his furs. She’s desperately reaching for him, her arms constantly re-adjusting, her fists grabbing anything she can find.

“Yes,” he says softly, “I’m here.”


	60. Writing More (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Hawke teaching Fenris how to write – goes to Varric for help because her writing sucks"  
> Fenris x Female Hawke

“I’m doomed,” Hawke moans, folding her head into her arms, forehead pressed against the table, feet stamping against the floor. Varric only chuckles, and doesn’t bother to look up from what he’s writing.

“Which noble did you kill this time?” He asks. That, at least, earns him a grunt of amusement from her. She raises her head, brushing hair away from her face.

“I wish this had to do with murder,” she tells him. “What do you think of my writing?” That gets his attention, and he puts his quill down to look at her with a blank expression.

“It’s awful.”

“I know!” She cries, her head disappearing back into her arms. He listens to her moan and stamp her feet in frustration before she pops back up, hands wound in her hair. “How am I supposed to teach Fenris when I am total shit?” Varric chuckles and leans back in his chair.

“Just ask birdie. You don’t need to be so dramatic,” he says. Hawke slips out of her chair, on her knees, moving to Varric’s side, and her hands on his armrest.

“Help me,” she pleads.

“I’ll write up some lesson plans,” he says and Hawke’s face immediately brightens, “but you owe me some favors for this. You are coming to that party next week and you’re dancing with whoever I tell you to. I need to see some feet being swept for inspiration.” He watches as Hawke’s face rolls from happiness to disgust, pouting to acceptance.

“You have a deal,” she says, one hand slowly coming up for a shake.

 

Fenris stares at the dwarf’s lessons. Very basic, it’s just an instruction to copy what he has written. “This is a love letter,” he says flatly, turning to Varric.

“I made her dance with Fifi De Launcet. She needs this, trust me,” Varric says.


	61. Outlawed (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Anders and Hawke as outlaws. On the run, Hawke gets shot"  
> Anders x Female Hawke

It was supposed to be simple grab and dash. There weren’t supposed to be any heroes. They had done this a million times before. They waited until the bank was as empty as possible before they pulled out their guns, calmly asking for all the cash, informing people that no one needed to get hurt. It was the old man, because of course it was. They were paying attention to the younger ones, those with fire in their eyes. So when the shot came, they barely reacted.

Anders turned slowly, seeing the pistol in the old man’s hands. Even he looked wide-eyed at what he had done, the gun falling from his hands, raising them up in the air. Hawke was the last to move, looking down at herself in confusion. There weren’t supposed to be any heroes. This was simple, easy, they had done this a million times before. She didn’t even feel it. Her hands pulled away from her gut, stained red and dripping wet.

She could smell iron, taste it in her mouth. Acrid and horrible, she opened her mouth as if to speak, but looked only at Anders instead. He caught her as she fell, knees weak and legs shaking. The sirens are already ringing in the distance when he opens the door, quickly putting her in the car. “Hold it tight,” he tells her, pressing his hand over hers, over the red in her side. He runs to the other side, keys in the ignition, tearing out of the parking lot.

“Hawke,” he looks at her as he presses down on the pedal, his knuckles white around the wheel. “Talk to me love.” The sirens are growing louder.

“Do you think they’ll let us see each other in prison?” She asks.

“We’re not going to prison,” he tells her. She glances down at the red weeping between her fingers. _No_ , she thinks, _I won’t be_. She presses her hands a little tighter against herself. He can see them in the rearview mirror now, the flashing blue and red, and quickly turns the car into a field. If they can make across, lose them in the trees…

“Up we go,” he says after he parks, leaving the keys behind, one of her arms wrapped around his neck as he begins to run as fast as he can with her in his arms. “Hang on.” Inwardly she thinks about the bloody handprint she’s putting on his shirt. Somehow that seems so important. It’s ridiculous. It’s so fucking ridiculous.

“Sweetie,” she says, “they have a rifle. You should put me down. Make a break for it.”

“Not leaving you,” he says, giving her a fierce glance.

“I don’t think you have a choice,” she says, and pressing down on the wound isn’t important anymore. She reaches up, and her fingers make a single stroke of blood on his cheek. The hand slips from his shirt. She leaves a handprint.

He moves to his knees, hands on her face. “No, no, come on Hawke, come back,” he cries, a hand trembling as it moves to the wound, shaking on her skin, forehead pressing against hers. One, two, three large breaths, forcing air back into his lungs.

He stands, turns and faces the cops. The rifle is lowered. He raises his arms. “Do it!” He screams. He takes the gun from his belt, fires the clip into the air before throwing it down into the dirt. “Do it you fucking bastards!” He’s thumping at his chest. The rifle rises.


	62. Hesitation (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Kavinsky – Odd Look ft The Weeknd “Your hesitation speak to me loud than a million words per minutes”"  
> Fenris x FemHawke

It’s in the small things, after he leaves, that keeps Hawke hoping. The way he’s at her side when any enemy gets close, sword out and roaring, in defense of her. The glances he gives her after a fight, up and down, lingering on the blood and ensuring it isn’t hers. The way he quickly looks away when she turns to him, tips of his ears all red. The smile he gives her before it disappears into a mug at the Hanged Man, the smallest brush of his hand against her back when they part.

It’s in the small things, after he leaves, that keeps Fenris feeling guilty. The lopsided grin that fades faster than it normally would, the laughter that falls as quick as it came. The side glances when they’re walking, and the expression on her face when she looks away (eyes cast to the ground, the smallest of frowns in her brow, the lips that curl downward). The touch on the back of his hand with just her fingertips, retreating as fast as she put them there.

She walks the edge of the water on the Wounded Coast, kicking stones and sand into the water. She’s wandering farther and farther away from their camp, where Anders and Isabela are laughing over the fire, discussing pearls and roses. He’s hesitant, at first, but when she becomes a speck in the distance, he’s quick to his feet, chasing after her. “Hawke,” he tells her, “you should come back. It’s not safe.” She smiles, her lips curling, her eyes staying sad.

“I’m sure the two of us could handle anything,” she says, not talking about bandits.

“Could we?” He asks, unsure, not talking about bandits either. She nods, pausing in her walk to step closer to him. She reaches out and there are fingertips on his arm, light and wary, before the palm follows. A sigh, then she steps even closer.

“Don’t you think we could? Together?” She asks, her forehead slowly dropping to his shoulder, her hand still on his arm. She feels his back stiffen and she closes her eyes. He hesitates, stuttering in his motions, before he places one hand on her back.

“I suppose so,” he tells her softly. She sighs again, soft with relief, her other hand at his waist. The water laps against the shore. Gulls echo in the distance. The sun sets, moon reflecting in the water, and still they stay, talking quietly without saying what they really mean, her hand on his arm, his head against hers.


	63. Model Behavior Pt 2 (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goes with [this picture](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/151741196364)

He’s nervous. Is he sweating? Oh god, he’s sweating. Hawke keeps his arms strapped to his sides, coffee cup in hand, eyes wide as he watches people run back and forth in front of him. It’s cramped in the small room, the lighting far too bright for him, and Maker does he seem like he’s in the way. Not to mention there are a _lot_ of pretty people everywhere. They’re all petite and waif-like and he is… a bear. He’s a goddamn bear. Hawke grumbles to himself as he chugs the rest of his coffee.

Fenris asked him to come to a photoshoot. Asked _him_. He still gets warm and fuzzy when he thinks about it (Fenris’s face all red, not looking straight at him, playing with a strand of his hair, swaying on his feet, murmuring out that it would mean a lot to him. He’s never asked anyone to a shoot before). Hawke’s chest puffs up slightly, grinning like an absolute dork to himself. He keeps himself focused on that as he stands in the shadows, rooted to the spot where Fenris told him to stand.

He’s easy to spot when he leaves the changing room. That stance, that hair, that face, Hawke would know him anywhere. Fenris makes his way to the center of the room, in front of all the cameras, looking completely at ease. And _spectacular_. Black is his color in a way nothing else is. The lights flash and Fenris moves effortlessly from pose to pose, the photographer barking out minimal instructions. It’s easy to see that Fenris knows exactly what he’s doing.

Hawke is hooked, captivated, mouth open and gaping, eyes wide, unable to look away. Everything else fades away into the background as he focuses on Fenris. The way his eyes close, the way he licks his lips, the grace in every movement. Hawke can hear his heart beat in his head, time slowing to a crawl as he watches.

Fenris finds him after, dressed casually. “I hope it wasn’t boring for you,” he says quietly (face all red, not looking straight at him, playing with a strand of his hair, swaying on his feet). Hawke lets out a deep breath that he didn’t realize he was holding.

“I am _the_ luckiest guy in the world,” he says in a rush, swallowing Fenris up in a deep hug. “You’re so… so… wow. I can’t – _Fenris_. I need to take you home right now.” Fenris laughs into his chest, hands wound into his shirt as he hugs him back.


	64. Finding (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Fenris starts finding some of Hawke's belongings around the mansion OR Hawke starts finding some of Fenris' belongings around the estate." (why not both?)  
> Fenris x Female Hawke

A bottle of sword oil. She holds it in her hand. Left on the desk of her bedroom, where Fenris had been sitting last night with his sword and whetstone. There’s a tunic in the closet that isn’t hers. She opens the doors to find it there one day, neatly beside her own clothes, tucked away. There’s a bottle of wine in her cellar, half empty, not from Ferelden and not from the Free Marches but from Tevinter. There are white strands in her comb and one side of her bed smells like him. Alone, she rolls over to that side, burying her face in the pillow and smiles.

There’s an extra blanket in his bed. His mansion gets too drafty, is what Hawke told him when she brought it. More pillows than he can use, scattered on his bed and floor. There’s a robe over edge of the tub in the bathroom, a towel on the rack nearby. Soaps that smell like lavender. Shirts too small for him. Books with handwritten notes on the pages, explaining words they haven’t covered yet. There’s a letter on the mantle telling him she left food for him in the kitchen. One side of his bed smells like her. Alone, he rolls out of bed and to his feet.

He knocks at her door when he thinks she’ll be awake, a bag in his hands. “Fenris!” She says when she sees him, her hand slipping into his as she pulls him through the door.

“I – ah, I’ve brought some things. If you don’t mind,” he says, feeling suddenly sheepish. She looks at him questioningly, her gaze moving to his bag and then back to him. The smile spreads brilliantly across her face.

“Of course I don’t mind.” There are tunics in the closet that aren’t hers. A robe in the bathroom, a towel hanging up to dry. There are books by her bedside, pages marked by a fold at the corner. There are slacks, leggings, pieces of armor. An extra whetstone, another bottle of sword oil. One side of her bed smells like him. She rolls over to that side, burying her face in his chest, wrapping her arms around him, and smiles.


	65. First and Red (Barris x Denam)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "First Kiss with Barris"  
> Barris x Denam

He doesn't make friends on his first day. He doesn't make friends in the first week. A month slips by, and then two. He buries himself in his studies. He finds himself in the library or in the training room more and more. The other Templars recruits in the barracks are loud, noisy, distracting. He returns only when he has to, late at night, books in hand, taking his place in his bunk. He lies in the bottom bunk, his hands folded over his chest, staring at the bunk above him. He squeezes his eyes closed. He is a Barris. He's going to be a Templar. It shouldn't matter that he's lonely.

His teachers like him enough, he guesses. They praise him, but pay no special attention to him. They don't talk to him like they do the other recruits. So he sits in the library, staring at the words without reading, turning pages without finishing. So when someone else slams down their books across from him, he's startled to say the least. He looks up, an older recruit, closer to being a real Templar than he was. He sits down, opens his book, places an elbow on the table and flips through the pages, glancing at Delrin every so often. Flustered, he stares straight down at the book in front of him.

"I see you in here all the time," he says, "more than enough studying for a recruit, hmm?"

"I - there are so many demons - I need to study," Delrin stumbles the words out, much to his amusement. The older boy chuckles, slams his book shut.

"I'm Denam," he says.

"Delrin."

"I know."

He sees more of Denam in the library, in the training room, showing up at his barracks with a plate of food. At first, it annoys him. Denam talks constantly, not about anything Templar related, but about everything and anything else. He insists on sparing with Delrin, hammering away at his shield. "You have to angle your shield like this," Denam says, fixing it to the exact way he wants it to be. "When you block spells with your shield, you don't want them angling up into your face."

He sees him every day. In the next week. A month slips by, and then two. Denam and his smile at every turn, by his side, adding books to his pile telling him that no this one is the most comprehensive. Delrin’s training goes by smoothly. He's moved to a different barracks. He shares a room with another recruit. He shares a room with Denam. He lies on his bed, hands folded on his chest, staring across the room at the other bed, at Denam's sleeping form.

Denam gets his first dose of lyrium the next day. Delrin sits on the bed with him as Denam holds a bucket in his lap, puking into it every so often. He’s pale around the edges and quiet for the first time in his life. “I’ve never felt anything like it. It’s awful but I want _more_ ,” Denam mourns. Delrin is there for his second and his third dose. The sickness passes quicker now.

"Thank you," Denam says quietly. He rubs his face in his hands after washing out his mouth, taking a seat beside Delrin. He turns to him, a hand on Delrin's shoulder. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, struggling with what to say. His expression shifts from reluctance, hesitation, to determination. He surges forward, his mouth on Delrin's, hands pressing into his shoulders. Delrin is quick to accept after the initial surprise, his hands on Denam's arm, opening his mouth to his.

Denam pulls away, face flushed. “I’m getting a promotion. They’re assigning me elsewhere. I didn’t want to… I didn’t want to leave without doing that first,” he says. They don’t talk much after that. Denam leaves the next morning. Delrin doesn’t make friends the first day. The first week. A month slips by, and then two, and it becomes a little easier.

He doesn't see him again for many years. He passes Denam in the halls of Therinfal Redoubt. He doesn't recognize him. He sees him again in the cellars of Skyhold. Red and tainted, not the man Barris once knew. Not the man he loved. Not anymore.


	66. Not Helping (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I just did some calculations, and I’ve been able to determine that you’re full of shit"  
> Dorian x M!Lavellen

“Perhaps you should accept your friends help _monsieur_.”

“ _Kaffas_! I know what you think, and he’s not my friend. He’s…” It stings, in his bones, his ribs tightening as Dorian barely glances at him before continuing. “Never mind what he is.” Passing flirtations, the barest of touches. A single kiss. But he’s not a friend? The trip back to Skyhold is soured, Dorian keeping himself away from Lavellan. It’s not the same, not at his side. _I don’t want to discuss it_. So they haven’t.

Lavellan waits, and waits, until it finally arrives. The shining birthright, in the palm of his hand. A reason he doesn’t have to force. He trudges up the stairs to Dorian’s nook. Dorian only looks at it when Lavellan hands it to him, a frown forming in his brow. “Now I’m indebted to you. I never wanted this, I told you.”

“I didn’t do this so you would be indebted to me, Dorian. I did it for you,” he says. There’s that sting in his bones again, the aching hurt. Nothing about this adds up. It doesn’t make any sense. Shouldn’t one treat their friends? Their loved ones? His words sound like excuses to Lavellan, reasons to keep them apart. It’s shit, all of it. Dorian only sighs.

“That’s the problem,” Dorian says softly.

“How is that a problem?”

“Someone intelligent would cozy up to the Inquisitor if they could. It’d be foolish not to,” Dorian says, pacing back and forth, his hands moving with every word. “He can open doors, get you whatever you want, shower you with gifts and power.” Dorian stills in his movement, closes his eyes, hands gripped tight around the amulet. “That’s what they’ll say. I’m the magister who’s using you.”

The ache turns to anger. Not at Dorian. Never at Dorian. Anger ebbs away into turmoil, into understanding. “I… had no idea you were concerned about that.” Because he never was. He wasn’t thinking. He was only thinking of… _that kiss, rushed and breathless, warm and wet, more, please more_. He never wanted a status. He never wanted to be Inquisitor. If it closed this door…

“I don’t care what they think about me. I care what they think about _us_.” Lavellen’s eyes light up, turn hopeful, and he steps closer to Dorian. _Us_. Yes, yes, this is what he wants. More than anything. The one thing he’s wanted since becoming Herald, Inquisitor. “I… was an ass earlier at the merchant’s. It’s my specialty. I apologize. And thank you.”

Lavellan steps forward, placing his hand over Dorian’s. A wordless question. Dorian’s hand moves up his arm as he closes the gap. A wordless answer. A kiss, rushed and breathless, warm and wet, _us, us, us_.


	67. A Job (Merrill, Hawke, Isabela & Aveline)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ""Do you need me to kill someone for you?" Someone's been harassing merill. Hawk and Isabela don't take kindly to this. Aveline pretends she doesn't hear their talk of murder."

The knife stabs into the table, metal singing as it sinks into wood. Isabela keeps a grip on the handle, her other hand clenched into a fist. Merrill scratches the back of her head, sitting meekly in the chair. “I don’t mean to be any trouble,” she says.

“Someone is following you. Screaming at you in the streets. Maker’s balls, you’re covered in mud that he threw,” Hawke hisses, “the only trouble is going to be his.” Isabela turns to Hawke, who’s sitting in the chair beside her.

“How do you want to do this?” She asks. “I’m in favor of publically.”

“Or somewhere private where we can take our time,” Hawke leans over the table, her eyes shining darkly.

“You’re just going to scare him right?” Merrill squeaks out. Isabela and Hawke both turn to her, then glance at each other.

“Of course kitten, just to make sure he never bothers you again,” Isabela says. Hawke and Isabela glance at each other again, and nod. They’re going to fucking kill him. Across the table, Aveline sighs before standing up.

“I’m going home. Please try not to get arrested,” she says, rubbing the space between her brows.

That night, Isabela and Hawke go hunting. Their prey, however, eludes them. The night after that as well, and the night after that. “Whatever you did worked really well,” Merrill tells them, “I haven’t seen him at all!” She claps her hands together and smiles brilliantly.

Aveline sips at her mug. There’s a man sitting in the Kirkwall dungeons, one she put there. Isabela and Hawke fuss over Merrill, making her swear that she hasn’t seen him. Aveline takes another sip. He won’t be seen in Kirkwall again.


	68. Caught (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Getting caught kissing"  
> Fenris x Female Hawke

He realizes it first in the way she smiles. Brilliant, captivating, all encompassing, she glows radiant like the sun. It’s hard not to get caught up in the rays. Something has changed. She hasn’t smiled like this in months. He goes cold when he sees her direct the smile at Fenris, sees him smile back. Sees him _smile_. The elf laughs, carefree, with her, looking almost like a different man. Anders holds his staff a little tighter.

There’s a pain in his ribs that won’t go away. He feels it when he’s awake. He feels it when he sleeps. It lives with him now, deep in his bones. It tightens, deepens, at all the small things. He’s lost her now, truly, to someone that isn’t him. Someone who doesn’t understand, doesn’t care about their plight. All the talk of hating mages and Fenris takes her hand. She smiles, smiles, smiles. He aches, aches, aches.

She’s cut, in the fight, as she scrambles backwards. The sword slices through cloth but not much else. She’s quick to strike back, staff first, smashing him with it. A quick burst of magic from her fist finishes the job. She sits on a rock afterwards, breathing deeply, sweat on her brow, and Fenris walks to her side. He kneels before her, a hand reaching for the torn cloth, worry a knot in his frown.

She smiles.

She leans forward.

Anders turns away as they kiss, holding his staff in his hands. His knuckles are white with the effort of his grip. He closes his eyes. He feels the ache. He’s lost her.


	69. Family (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "can i request something tooth rottingly fluffy with pairing of your choice?"  
> Fenris x Female Hawke

He closes his eyes as she runs her hands through his hair. She scratches lightly against his scalp, kissing the tip of his ear when she bends forward. She gets to work soon after that, taking strand after strand and winding them together. They sit on the steps of their home, Hawke on the higher ones, listening to the birds chirp as she braids his hair. The morning air is cool, but there’s a blanket over her shoulders, reaching down to him. Her legs are on either side of him, and when he feels her hands slip from his hair, he kisses her knee.

She laughs at that, then moves down closer to him, wrapping her arms around his chest, resting her head against his shoulder. She’s warm at his back, and her hands wind into his shirt. He puts one of his own hands over hers, watching as the wind rustles the wind in the trees. “I like your hair longer,” she murmurs. He feels her nuzzle her face into his back before her face appears on his shoulder, knocking her head against his.

“It suits you,” she says. Fenris smiles as he detaches himself, turning, and his knees are on the steps as he presses his forehead against hers. She wraps the blanket around them both, pulling him in closer for a kiss. He kneels down before her, kisses trailing the line of her jaw, her neck. His hands move from her knees, to her thighs, to her belly, heavy with child.

“It won’t be long,” she says as he feels his baby kick feet against his hands.

“A fighter,” he tells her.

“Don’t I know it,” she groans as she smiles and leans back. She savors the fond way he looks at her, the gentle way his hands move over her. He kisses her belly before he rubs a hand against her face, caressing her cheek. Years ago, he never could have imagined this. Now he had his wife, and soon, his child. His family. _His_ family.


	70. Upside Down (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Why is the world upside down?"  
> Fenris x Female Hawke

The bandit gets in behind her. The prize on the Champion is too great to actually kill her. Instead, he strikes her with the pommel of her sword. She falls forward with a grunt, her staff clattering to the ground as she goes to her hands and knees. Fenris is on the bandit with a cry, stepping protectively in front of Hawke as he shows the bandit the error of his ways.

Anders’s hands are glowing over Hawke’s head, frowning as he seeks out any hurt, any wound. She’s kneeling in front of him, one hand at her forehead as she grimaces. “Maker’s balls that hurts.” Anders barks out a laugh at her words.

“It could’ve been worse,” he tells her. She only grins in return. Anders shakes his head, the glow subsiding. He stands, then extends a hand to her. She takes it gratefully, rising to her feet. Fenris has his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed as he taps his foot impatiently while he waits with Isabela. The instant she’s on her feet, he’s at her side. It was Anders who sent him away, hovering too closely and interfering with his concentration.

She stretches as they walk back to Kirkwall, swaying on her feet, a little slower, but still smiling as she listens to Fenris and Isabela talk to one another. “I swear it was at least ten inches,” Isabela says, her hands echoing her point.

“They don’t grow that large,” Fenris says, shaking his head.

“I’m telling you, I saw it!”

“Then you saw something else. Fenris is right,” Anders grunts. “Ants don’t grow to that size.”

“Awe, you boys are no fun.” She pouts, crossing her arms and sticking out her bottom lip.

“Why is the world upside down?” Hawke asks quietly behind them. They turn, questions at the ready, but Hawke lurches forward and promptly empties her stomach. She’s wobbling on her feet, a hand outstretched, and Fenris is quick to take it and pull her into his arms. She leans against him gratefully.

“Anders,” Fenris says sternly, “I thought you healed her.” She’s breathing quietly against his chest, his arms wrapped tight around her.

“I did,” Anders says. “It’s just residual. She needs rest.” Fenris is quick to scoop her up into his arms, before resuming the walk towards Kirkwall at a brisk pace, clearly eager to get her home.

“Why are we running? I hate running,” Isabela complains as she takes off after him.

“Fenris. Fenris. I’m fine. Slow down.” Hawke says. When he doesn’t listen, she reaches up and pulls down hard on his bangs. He stops in his tracks instantly to frown at her. “Slow. Down.” She smiles.

“You should be in bed as soon as possible,” he tells her.

“I’m good here,” she says, brushing a hand against his cheek.


	71. Funalis (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "One of your Dragon Age OCs attends a masked Halloween (or the Thedosian equivalent) Party with their love interest (or BFF, take your pick). The lights go out. A body is found. It is murder, but by who?"

“I can’t believe I haven’t made you celebrate Funalis before,” Hawke grins, leaning into Fenris. She watches as the corners of his lips curl up, the slight evidence of his smile. He’s wearing a half-mask, ornate and shaped like a wolf, and his fingers are playing with the stiff collar of the suit. He feels not quite at ease without his armor, his sword at his back. He could not, however, pass up the opportunity to see Hawke in a dress. She did not disappoint, stunning in red, wearing a half mask with a large curve like a bird’s beak.

They’ve all gathered in Hawke’s mansion, drinks in their hands and masks on their faces. Isabela is wearing one with an unseemly amount of feathers, while Merrill’s is all vines and gold. Sebastian’s is plain and white, while Anders has opted for a mask painted like that of a desire demon. Aveline is wearing a sturdy mask, while Varric’s is flimsy and if you squinted, looked almost like a poor replication of Bartrand’s face.

Fenris pauses in taking a sip from his glass of wine when the candles begin to flicker. All of them are suddenly snuffed out and they hear one stuttering wail. The fires suddenly burst back into life and Isabela is lying in the middle of the floor, a knife in her belly and blood pooling around her. “Murder and death most foul! There is a murderer in your midst! The only question remains is who?” Varric booms out, his voice lilting and hands waving dramatically.

“It was Sebastian,” Fenris deadpans. Varric’s jaw drops.

“It was me actually-” Sebastian starts but Varric waves at him frantically until he drops into silence.

“No! You need proof! What’s your proof?”

“He admitted it,” Fenris says. On the floor, covered in fake blood, Isabela has burst into peals of laughter, stamping her feet against the tile, her hands clutching at the fake stomach wound. Merrill has her hands over her mouth as she chuckles, and even Aveline is chortling.

“You,” Varric points at Fenris, “are a fun-ruiner.” Hawke is doubled over laughing, slapping at her knee. “Oh no,” Varric says, turning his attentions to Hawke, “he is officially banned. I had so much planned out for this!”

“Sorry Varric,” Hawke giggles, “there’s always next year.”


	72. First Impressions (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "First impressions of each other"  
> Fenris x Female Hawke

She leans into him, one of his arms draped around her shoulders. In his other, he holds a book, reading quietly and thumbing through pages. The fire sparks as she nestles her head into the crook of his neck, one of her hands on his thighs. “What did you think of me?” she asks suddenly, “when you first saw me?” Fenris’s eyebrows rise, and he slowly puts the book down on the armrest, settling it so that it’s open to his page.

“Why do you ask?” Hawke smiles, her eyes closed, feeling him speak against her hair. His other hand now free, it lands on her arm, holding her gently.

“We’ve been together for years now – I’m just curious.” He chuckles lightly, resting his cheek against her head.

“You were a mage. To me, back then, that’s the only thing I could think of. I – ah – perhaps thought of you unkindly,” his words are slow, the shame plain, and she laughs as she gives his thigh a gentle squeeze.

“Nothing else?” He shifts, turning to face her, forcing her to sit up properly. He leans forward, his face at her neck, moving her to lie down upon the sofa. He braces one hand upon the armrest, the other underneath her as he gently bites at her neck.

“Your hair. Your eyes. Your freckles,” he dots kisses across her cheeks. “I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.” She catches his face in her hands, smiling as she tilts her head upwards to kiss him.

“Flatterer,” she says as he laughs and she tucks hair behind his ears.

“It is only fair now, Hawke, that you tell me what you thought of me.”

“Honestly? You scared the right shit out of me.” His eyes widen before he breaks into a startled laugh as she grins beneath him. “Seriously! My introduction to you was, ‘hello here is this man’s heart’. It’s a little scary love, you have to admit.”

“I hope I do not scare you now.” She smiles as she wraps her arms around him, pulling her down to him.

“Never. I know what a big softie you are now,” she says.

“Tell no one.”

“Our secret.”


	73. N7 (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mass Effect / Dragon Age crossover done for N7 day

She’s laughing as they weave through narrow streets, one hand wound in the back of his jacket and holding fast, the other holding a pistol. He shifts his weight on the bike, turning tightly down another corridor. The neon lights of the Omega market are flashing, buzzing, electric cacophony drowned in the noise of the crowd. She’s yelling at people to get out of the way as they speed down narrow streets, half standing to peer over the tops of people’s heads. She can see the other bike just ahead, just a little bit further.

He leans forward, hands turning and urging the bike faster, as she settles behind him, her arm on his shoulder. She’s lining up the shot, using him for balance, as people scream and jump out of the way, clearing the way for her. She’s breathing in his ear as she leans forward, still grinning, and squeezes the trigger. It hits the other bike, knocking out its engines, sending it wobbling and toppling into a pile of trash. Fenris stops right beside it while Hawke hops off the bike, pistol still in hand.

She pulls the asari from the trash, holding her by the collar. “Stealing isn’t very nice,” Hawke says, tapping her pistol against the asari’s face. Hawke holds her still while Fenris takes the bag from the asari’s shoulders, slinging it around his own. Hawke pushes her back in the trash leaving her glaring at the two of them while they go back to their bike. Hawke wraps her arms around Fenris’s waist, and sticks her tongue out at the asari as they drive away.

She rests her head against Fenris’s back as they move onto actual streets, feeling the hum of the motor beneath her, and the wind passing them by. She smiles as she squeezes him tighter, burying her face in his leather jacket.

Aveline has her hands in her hair when they drop the bag onto her desk. “You drove a fucking motorcycle through the market! We’re supposed to be making a name for ourselves, not shooting ourselves in the feet! You do want people to hire us, right?”

“Of course! That’s why I put you in charge of the Champions, Aveline,” Hawke says. Varric chuckles, scrolling through an article. He puts down the holopad as he leans back in the chair.

“Relax Aveline, I can spin this just fine. We do what needs to be done. No job left unfinished,” Varric says while Hawke grins waves her hands excitedly in Varric’s direction for Aveline. Aveline, for her part, gives a deep sigh, rubbing the space between her brows. There’s a small smile curling the ends of Fenris’s lips as he leans against the wall, arms crossed.

“Fine, fine. I’ll let you know when – _if_ – we get hired again,” Aveline says, dismissing them with a wave, collapsing back into the chair behind her desk. Hawke gives her another toothy grin before she turns, taking Fenris’s hand and pulling him out the door with her. She drags him with her to an elevator, taking him to the highest section of the building. Out the door, climbing ladders even higher, until they’re on the roof, sitting with their feet dangling over the edge.

Omega is still bright, still neon and buzzing, busy with crowded light, a blur of activity. “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?” Hawke asks him, running a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. Fenris cocks his head, thinks for a moment.

“I would like to see Earth sometime, Hawke. You did promise to take me there,” he tells her.

“I did, didn’t I?” She muses, leaning forward, pressing her head against his. Black hair mixes with white and he smiles as their hands tangle together. “All we need is more jobs, better jobs, make the Champions a mercenary group that people can count on. Then we’ll have enough to get our own ship, go anywhere we want.” He turns to her, giving her a gentle kiss.

“Another promise.” She grins.

“You know I always keep my promises.”

“I know.” More smiles, another kiss. Some parts of Omega are brighter, busier, but they find that where they are is just fine.


	74. Touch (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Something fluffy with FenHawke  
> Fenris x Female Hawke

The first time Hawke touches Fenris, she doesn’t. He doesn’t realize that a hand raised no longer means the strike of punishment. She means to put her hand on his shoulder after a battle well fought, hard won, but he sees the raised hand and closes his eyes, teeth gritting, shoulders tightening. It’s all done within a flash of a moment, a single breath, but it’s enough to make Hawke’s smile and cheer falter. Her hand falls back to her side, and Fenris walks away, sheathing his sword.

The second time Hawke touches Fenris, she asks first. He looks at her curiously sitting by her side in the Hanged Man and nods. She smiles, rests her hand on his knee. It’s a light touch, the barest of things. Something he could brush away easily if he wanted to. He remains stiff as she keeps it there, his eyes continually dropping to it.

The third time Hawke touches Fenris, she can’t ask him. She pulls the blade from his belly swiftly, clapping her hand over the wound. She presses against it as he writhes against the rock. She’s no healer, no Anders, and she’s always asked Fenris’s permission before using her magic on him. His eyes are glazed, rolling in and out of consciousness, and she pours her magic into him instantly. She’ll accept his anger as long as he lives.

The fourth, the fifth, the sixth time Hawke touches Fenris, it seems almost natural. A finger tap at his knuckles to get his attention. An arm slung around his shoulders, a mug of ale in her other hand, laughing against him. A grateful squeeze of her hand on his arm after he blocks a blow meant for her. His cheeks color at each touch.

The seventh, the eighth, the ninth time Hawke touches Fenris, he welcomes it. A smile and a hand reaching for him, resting on his knee as they talk over a fire. Brushing hair back from his face, laughing about the bloodstains in the white. Arms draping over his shoulders, her chest against his back as she spies on his hand of cards after she loses.

The tenth time Hawke touches Fenris, he asks her to. He presents bare arms, the markings there, and asks her if she’d like to touch them. Her fingertips are gentle, cautious, and soft as she follows them up his arm. She asks him if they hurt. They don’t when she touches them.

The eleventh time Hawke touches Fenris, he thinks he might never let her go. She tastes sweet, her lips wet and warm, and he cannot get enough. Her arms around his shoulders, his hands on her waist, pulling her closer. How had he lived before this? She was all human heat and soft voices, and he’d never been so desperate to hold something in his life. Never let go. Never let go.


	75. A Hug (DA2 Companions)

Isabela feels like laughter. She’s rolling waves and high wind, smelling of sea salt and victory. She slinks her arms around you, scratching lightly at your back as she nuzzles into you with a smile. A storm, a battle, you have no choice but to hang on as she sways on her feet, taking you with her.

Merrill smells like pastries. She slaps her arms around you as tight as they’ll go, squeezing her eyes shut as she squeezes around you. She thinks she might crush you, but all you feel is love and warmth. She presses herself close, tries to touch opposite elbows with fingertips.

Even without meaning to, you think Aveline might break you. She doesn’t hug often, but she hugs fiercely. She puts one hand on your head, guiding you to her shoulder, slapping your back with the other. You think you might cough out your lungs. And then she simply holds you, like a mother bear might hold a cub, murmuring soft things in your ear.

Varric is grinning when he does it. You think he tries to lift you. You feel his arms around your waist and the barest lift… until your toes scrape the ground and he’s spinning in a circle. A man of hidden talent, he tells you. He’s all spice and ale, warm earth and cool stone, pulling you down and ruffling your hair when he goes.

Fenris brushes your cheek with his hand first. Stiff and awkward, seeking permission as his hands move to your waist. Light and barely there at first, his hands clenched into fists. Then they spread, warm palms your back and pull you in without hesitation. Gentle fingers threading through hair, his head leaning against yours.

Sebastian is all smiles, enveloping you quickly, patting your back. He holds you in a way where your arms are strapped at your side, your head stuck beneath his chin, stuck in his embrace. He speaks in soft melodies, lullabies, whispers of protection and comfort. Your head rests against his shoulders, voice lulling, hands rubbing soft circles on your back.

Anders has wisps of magic about him. As he holds you, they seem to seep into your skin. They find every bruise, every hurt, every cut and scrape. Warmth wraps around your bones and you, relaxing at the healer’s touch. He winds his hands into your shirt, holding to you almost desperately, the care in every callous on his palms.


	76. Drinking (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: "Come to bed, you're drunk"  
> Dorian/Lavellan

It’s supposed to be a celebration. It certainly looks like one. There’s laughter and smiling, dancing and drinking. Celebrating the end of the Inquisition. Disbanded, discarded, broken and gone. The Exalted Council saw to that. Solas saw to the rest. Lavellan seems fine enough, his sleeve rolled up, pinned closed, hiding the scars, the stump, beneath. There’s a drink in his hand, his fourth if Dorian is counting correctly. He’s grinning, chatting with Josephine and Cullen. It’s supposed to be a celebration but Dorian isn’t feeling very cheery.

The night grows long and more and more people filter away. The more people leave, the less Lavellan smiles. This may be the last time _the_ Inquisition is all together. Leliana is heading back to fulfill her duties as Divine. Cassandra looks to restore the Seekers and Vivienne, the Circle. Cole is disappearing, bits and pieces going back to the Fade. The Chargers will seek their fortune elsewhere. Sera will wreak havoc across Thedas. Dorian is going to Tevinter.

Dorian wraps one arm around Lavellan’s waist, pulls him to his feet. “Come to bed amatus, you’re quite drunk.” Lavellan sours, but his hand grips at Dorian’s. Dorian helps him undress, undoing all those tricky ties and knots. At the bed Lavellan simply stands, one hand holding onto the blankets. “In you go,” Dorian encourages. Lavellan turns to him, eyes pained and sad.

“Take me with you.” Dorian’s breath leaves him. Not once had Lavellan objected. I’m proud of you _vhenan_. You’ll be good magister _vhenan_. You’ll save your country _vhenan_. _Ar lath ma vhenan_. Always a smile, a hand on his shoulder. The tears well in Lavellan’s eyes, roll bitterly down his face. “Don’t leave me. Please.” _Vhenan, vhenan, vhenan_. Dorian instantly steps to his side, pulls him to his chest, holds him as his shoulders shake.

His remaining hand fists in the back of Dorian’s shirt. There are dark green veins on his other arm, winding ones that travel to his chest and to his neck. He had stumbled out of the eluvian, his arm a smoking ruin. Dorian had never felt more fear than in that moment. He thought he’d lose him for good. He knows the dangers, knows the risk of bringing an elf into Tevinter. An elf that was easily recognizable. He could barely keep himself safe, how could he protect Lavellan?

He tells himself that leaving him behind is the best thing. He tells himself that the sending crystal will be enough. He tells himself that Lavellan will forget, will recover. Dorian buries his face into Lavellan’s hair, keeps his arms tight around him. He tells himself it will stop hurting. He knows it won’t.


	77. A Date (Fenris x F!Hawke, Aveline x Donnic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "FenHawke and Aveline/Donnic go on a Double date"

Donnic and Hawke had finished a pizza together. Donnic and Hawke had shared a pint of ale. Donnic and Hawke were currently walking with their arms around each other and laughing. “I feel a little left out,” Fenris says to Aveline. Aveline chuckles as they follow in their wake. They’re walking down the boardwalk, headed to the beach. Hawke had insisted that she needed sand between her toes before the night was over.

Sure enough, as soon as she reaches sand, her shoes are off and in her hand. She’s racing down at the edge of the water, yelling and arms flailing. Donnic is more than content to simply lie down and watch as the world spins by. “Like children,” Aveline says to Fenris. He gives a small grunt of agreement.

“We would be lost without them,” Fenris says. He has his arms crossed, his shoes dipping into the sand. Aveline turns to him and smiles.

“I am happy for you. That you found each other. It’s good to see you smile once in a while.” Fenris fights the blush in his cheeks, stares at the setting sun reflecting off the water. Hawke has discarded her shoes and is now wading in, bending over to splash her hands against the water. “Maker knows how happy you make her, as well,” Aveline tells him.

“Donnic is a good man. A good friend. He suits you,” Fenris says quietly. “You make each other stronger.” Aveline thinks on that for a moment, before nodding and clapping Fenris on the back.

“You are absolutely right,” she says as she begins to walk off, taking a seat beside the star-fished Donnic. He smiles when he sees her, raises a sand covered hand towards her in greeting. Fenris walks to the edge of the water, in time to see Hawke lose her balance and land ass backwards in ankle high water. Undeterred, she’s laughing, lying in it, grinning up at Fenris.

“Hello you,” she says.

“Hello,” he says as he bends over, hooks his hands under her arms and hauls her to her feet. She leans against him gratefully, wet back against his chest, and wraps his arms around her.


	78. Please (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“Please stay” & “I need this” FenHawke (after Leandra’s death) (Angst)"

Hawke doesn’t cry when her mother dies. Hawke doesn’t move either. She stays on her knees, her mother held tightly in her arms, with a blank expression on her face. Aveline is kneeling down before her, a hand on her shoulder, telling her something kindly but firmly. She still has to pry Hawke’s fingers open to allow the guards to take her mother’s body. Isabela helps her to her feet, rubbing small circles on her back. Isabela leans her head close to hers, whispers sweet things in her ear. Hawke’s expression doesn’t change.

Fenris trails behind them as they walk back to Hawke’s estate. The edges of Aveline’s mouth are curled downwards, her arms crossed as she watches Hawke. Isabela is still on Hawke’s arm, still whispering, still trying to summon Hawke back to herself. She moves mechanically, slipping off her shoes the instant she’s through the door. Pieces of her armor follow, one after the other as she moves up the stairs without a sound. Aveline and Isabela are talking in the kitchen with Bodahn and Orana. Fenris has his hand on the banister.

Each stair is a struggle, a reminder of how he left. Hurried steps in the other direction, fleeing from feeling, fleeing from her. He pauses at her door, wondering if he had the right to open it. Wondering if he had the right to be with her, in _that_ room. He hears a deep and broken sigh, and all hesitation leaves him. “I don’t know what to say, but I am here.”

She’s sitting on her bed, head in her hands. Her hands fall to her lap, shaking as she flexes them into fists and back out. “Please stay,” she says quietly, to the floor. So he does, taking a seat beside her. He reaches for one trembling hand, takes it in his. There’s still that blank, far-off look in her eyes, her shoulders hunched, her feet restless.

Her hand squeezes in his as she turns to him, her hand on his shoulder, crushing her mouth against his. To his shame, he flinches and pulls away. She’s quick to chase after him, her hand slipping from his, winding into his shirt, her eyes squeezed closed as her lips press against his again. He reaches for her wrists, trapping them in his grip, pulling her away. “Hawke.”

“Please,” she begs, “I need this. Make me feel something.” He recoils, as though she’s slapped him.

“I _can’t_.” His voice breaks on the second word. Her eyes connect with his, and he’s afraid she might see the horror there. His weakness, his carelessness. Instead, she just feels alone. The blank slate shatters. Her head drops to his shoulder. She cries, her wrists still trapped in his hands.


	79. Wonder (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“Ever wonder if the world would be better off without you?” FenHawke (Hawke blaming herself for the deaths in her family) (Angst)"

He had met her amongst the dust and dirt of the Kirkwall alienage. She had smiled, she had laughed, thrown back her head and pledged her aid without a second thought. Capable, headstrong, a smile ever quirking at her lips. Hawke grinned when she twirled her staff between her fingers, at the ease in which she could cast magic. Fenris found her fearsome at first but had learned to call her friend. It came in the dust and dirt of his mansion, a bottle of wine between them, sharing details of homes long gone.

Talk of Lothering never failed to make her frown. She’d taken to offensive spells easily. Healing came harder, if it came at all. So when the fever came, she could do nothing. She watched her father wither away while fire danced underneath her skin. She thought her magic might serve her better when the darkspawn came. Instead she stood drained, mana like snow in summer, and watched the ogre grab her sister.

A grimace at the talk of Bethany, a rub at her brow. She takes long gulps of wine before she’s smiling again, laughing about different things. She’s still laughing when she goes into the Deep Roads, Carver at her side. Fenris watches her fear, her panic, at the sickness underneath Carver’s skin. He hears her slip away when the others are sleeping, beating at stone with bare fist. He takes to sitting by her side at the fire, to following her when she moves to disappear. The scabs on her knuckles heal shortly after they return to Kirkwall.

Hawke tells him her mother blames her. She hides in his mansion because she’s afraid to be in her own estate. She curls up on the only couch he has, refusing to take his bed. He takes the best blanket he has, covers her with it. Ensures her head is on the best pillow. Brushes the hair back from her face as she whimpers in her sleep. He’d like to see that cocky mage again, that toothy grin, that careless laughter.

She laughs into his mouth when he kisses her. Her hands are in his hair, scratching lightly against his scalp. Her fingers trace his ears, his jaw, and she finds her way back to his mouth. She melts underneath Fenris’s hands, fingers digging into his shoulders as her back arches. She throws back her head and moans out her pleasure, chest heaving with it. She holds him tightly in her arms, whispers love with a smile on her face. In the end, he strikes that smile from her face.

He sees it sour further in the days that follow, her eyes unable to meet his. She holds her staff with white knuckles, flinches when he touches her. When Leandra is taken, he fears she’ll never smile again. He tells her that he’s here for her, but that only seems to upset her more. She pushes them all away, hiding in that dark estate. She comes out again, still broken, but a smile hides it all.

They find their way back to each other, by tooth and claw. She doesn’t wear that fake smile around him. She allows herself to be held, to have her forehead kissed, her hand held. She’s strong and fearless, that cocky mage, around the others. She lets herself be weak with him. He sees it in her fear for a city that’s tearing itself apart. He sees it in the grief she holds for one she thought a friend. He knows it in her shaking touch, her hand in his before they exit the gallows.

She looks back at Orsino, at Anders, at all the mages they could not save. “Ever wonder if the world would be better off without you?” Toothy grin, cocky laugh, smiling through the tears. He pulls her head to his shoulder, his arms around her, whispers in her ear. She may break, but he will keep her standing. She’s fearless again when she faces Meredith, Fenris at her side.


	80. A Distraction (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "But can I have 29, 24 from the kiss prompt. Taking place after the Wyvern hunt and before the party? I feel like fen needs love after being called a man servant. | Pulled into a kiss & kiss as a distraction"

She can feel him at her back. He stares at all who dare approach her, looking very much like a predator ready to devour prey. _Servant_. Hawke watched him flinch when they announced him. Fenris has been angry ever since. So even though she’s wearing her nicest dress, her most approachable dress, she can’t get near a noble to talk to them, let alone ask them about the Duke’s vault. The surprise registers on his face when she takes him by the hand, drags him to one of the side rooms.

She leans against the door as she closes it behind her, approaches him fiercely, one arm over his shoulder, the other winding into his shirt as she tugs his face to hers. Her kiss is warm, wet, and full of fight. Her tongue finds its way into his mouth, pressing insistently. She’s pulling at his tunic, backing him against the wall. When she pulls away, there’s a gleam in Hawke’s eyes. “Fenris,” she says, her voice low and husky. “I am yours.”

“Lady Hawke cannot be with a _servant_ ,” he spits out the words. His hands are clenched into fists, the frown hanging low, and he cannot look her in the eye. He knew this day would come. She belonged amongst the wealth and shine of other nobles. She deserved all the glittering jewelry, the fine silks. She deserved a husband with a lordly name, a title and a castle, to give her all that she desires.

“I chose you,” Hawke says, a finger on his jaw, turning his face to hers. “I want no one else.” She leans back close to him, her arms on his shoulders as she presses a kiss to his neck. “Show them,” she murmurs, “show them I belong to you.”

He’s quick to flip their positions, pressing her against the bookshelf. Her hands scramble upwards, finding a place on a shelf, a few books falling at her touch. His mouth is at her neck, sucking and biting gently, leaving marks at her collar. Her hands are at the laces of his trousers, his at her skirts, pulling them upwards. He lifts her with ease, bracing her against him. His hands clench at the underside of her thighs, her arms wrapped tight around his neck.

She wears a collarless dress to the party. She has a drink in her hand, a smile on her face, leaning easy against a pillar. She wears no necklace. Fenris is more relaxed, her arm in his, his smile matching hers. The flirtations with the Lady Hawke stop. Instead, they look at her neck, then look at the smiling elf beside her. Hawke raises her eyebrows, the glass to her lips, and continues talking as if nothing is wrong. Because nothing is wrong.

Before she slips inside the castle, she reaches for him where all others can see, planting a kiss on his lips. She gives him a wink before she leaves, Tallis at her side.


	81. A Favor (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“Last time I ask you for a favor!” FenHawke (Happy)"

“This is the last time I ask you for a favor,” Hawke complains, disappearing into the changing stall once again. “I need something better than ‘that looks nice’.” He can see her feet underneath the stall, standing on tip-toes, pants dropping to the ground.

“I’m sure Isabela would have been a better choice for this,” Fenris says, sitting on the bench across from her stall. He watches as her feet stamp.

“Isabela would have steered me towards something way too inappropriate for a room full of crusty old men,” Hawke says. Her feet turn, fabric hits the floor and her feet disappear inside of it.

“Oh but I’m the perfect target for ‘crusty old man’,” Fenris says dryly. She’s on her tip-toes again, weight dropping to one foot and then the other as she struggles with the dress.

“That is not what I meant and you know it,” Hawke tells him. “Stupid public speaking, academia needing to…” he chuckles as she trails off into a string of mumbled obscenities. He hears her fiddling with the latch, and she’s grimacing when she opens the stall.

“I can’t get the bloody… can you zip me up?” It takes a moment for Fenris to rise to his feet. He’s too busy staring, his jaw slightly agape, looking at her. A small, tight black dress, hugging and highlighting every curve. She turns for him, showing the open back, pulling her hair out of the way. She’s… Maker, she had to take her bra off for this dress. He’s presented with creamy skin, freckles like stars against the sky.

His hands shake when he reaches for the zipper at her lower back, tugging it upwards. It reaches the top and her hair swings back into place as she lets it go. She turns to him, her face red, spinning for full effect. “Well?” She asks, her hands at her side, clenched in fists.

“Beautiful,” he tells her.


	82. Come Get Me (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“Please come get me.” FenHawke (Angst)"

He dreams of her more often of late. She’s walking somewhere he doesn’t recognize, towards a destination he can’t name. She has her hands clamped over her ears and she doesn’t want to look at him. “Not him, please,” she begs. He thinks he might recognize a street down in Lowtown, but the sky cracks green and he just can’t be sure. He wakes alone, in the bed they used to share, her side cold and empty as it has been for the past few months.

Fenris sweeps the floors today. He promised Hawke he’d keep the estate in good order. _No skeletons_ , she’d told him with a smile. He dusts the shelves in the library, scrubs the counters in the kitchen. He washes plates in soapy water, rinses out glasses. He goes to the market, buys bread, chicken and a new book. He’s already exhausted everything in her library.

He meets with Donnic after his shift is done, playing cards by candlelight before Aveline comes home. They eat dinner together, share a bit of wine. They talk about Sebastian, the armies he’s gathering in Starkhaven. “I want to think he means to do well,” Aveline says as she rubs her brow. “I just think he wants to see if we’re hiding Anders in our wine cellars.” Hawke would know what to do, if Hawke was here.

Fenris dreams of her again. He’s standing on a windy hill, beside a dying tree. She’s sitting with her legs crossed, knuckles white as she holds onto her ankles. He doesn’t think she sees the same thing he does. She squeezes her eyes closed at the sight of him. “Can we go back to the corpses of my family? I think I liked that better,” she grumbles.

“Hawke,” he says, and she flinches. She rises to her feet and faces him.

“You can’t,” she tells him, “it won’t work. No matter how many times you show me him.”

He waters the plants in the morning. He dusts the frames of the paintings, beats out the bedsheets in the yard. He goes to Lowtown to see Merrill, helps her carry things for the elves in the alienage. “That roof has a leak again,” she says, pointing towards a house. He fixes it in the afternoon. She makes him dinner as thanks, and she chatters about alienage matters while they eat.

“Oh, for the love of –” the dream version of Hawke waves her arms in frustration. “At least stop popping up right in front of me.” She rubs the space between her brows. There are dark circles under her eyes, and a thinness to her that Fenris has never seen before. Just as he thinks she looks ill, Hawke turns to the side, doubles over and throws up slime.

“Gross,” she says as she wipes her mouth.

“I miss you,” he says. “I’ve learned how to cook better. I’ve been reading recipes from Ferelden.” Hawke regards him cautiously. “When you come back from the Inquisition, I’ll make you everything you’ve talked about.” Hawke covers her eyes with her hands and laughs. He thinks he sees tears fall down her cheeks.

“You can’t,” she tells him, “I’m not coming back.”

He cracks eggs in the morning, adds them to the pan of sizzling bacon. He reads the paper as he eats, all the mundane things happening in Kirkwall, all the rifts in Thedas. The Inquisition’s armies are on the move, returning from the Arbor Wilds. Surely, whatever help Hawke could give them would be coming to an end soon. He cleans out their closet, wipes down her desk. He makes sure her papers are in the proper order, that her ink is still fresh. She’d want to write the others when she returned.

“There’s no end,” she tells him that night. “I feel like I’ve walked everywhere. I can’t find a way out.” She steps closer to him, rests her forehead on his shoulder. He hears incoherent frustration. “I can’t get back to you.” Her head lifts, and her hands press against his chest, pushing and punching before she winds her hands into his tunic and pulls him closer. “Please come get me,” she begs. “Please, please, I want to come home.”

Fenris waves to Aveline when he sees her in the market on her rounds. When he returns to the estate, he finds a courier at the door. A courier wearing the uniform of the Inquisition. He snatches away the letter they present to him, opens the envelope with greed. He’s been starving to hear from her, knowing that when she wrote, she’d be headed back to Kirkwall. To him. Instead of Hawke’s blocky script, he sees Varric’s flowing letters.

“You’re dead,” he tells her in the dream that night. They sit together on her bed, the fire crackling before him.

“Am I?” She says. Her hands knit together in her lap. “I suppose I am.” She turns to him, gives him a sad smile, and rests her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry Fenris. I didn’t mean to leave you. I wanted us to grow old together.” Fenris’s head drops, gaze moving from fire to floor, to darkness. He presses his hands against his eyes, as if they could stop the tears from falling.


	83. Something (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say…” FenHawke (Happy)"

It happens after the battle at the gallows. There’s a smile on her face as she means to throw a fireball, but that smile falls into nothingness as the fire never comes. She stares at her hands as though they’ve betrayed her, the staff faltering in her grip. Her mouth gapes open, the shock evident, but Fenris is quick at her side, cutting down the approaching bandit.

At their camp, before the fire, he takes her hand in his. He holds it in his hands, his thumbs pressing into her palms, massaging gently. “I don’t know what happened,” she murmurs, “I reached and it just – it wasn’t there.” He says nothing, watching the frown crease her brow. He keeps watching as she rolls through thought after thought. She settles on sadness, and that’s when Fenris reaches for her face. His hand on her cheek, thumb over her cheekbones, a kiss chasing his touch. An unspoken promise. He would be the magic for her, her power, her sword, as he has always been.

She disappears in town the next day, with a smile, promising to return with needed supplies. A new whetstone. Sword oil. Food, blankets, Varric’s newest book. She returns much later in the day, the sun setting, a box in her arms. She smiles when she presents him with the warm pastries, flaking in his touch. There’s more there, that he knows, in the way she looks away from him, the way the smile falters with her thoughts.

Her magic stutters more over the next few days, culminating in a frustrated scream. She beats a fist into a tree, shakes her offending hands. She paces in a circle, running hands through her hair, tapping them against her hips. She kicks at dirt, grumbling under her breath. “Fenris, I -” she shakes her head, holds her arms to herself.

“There’s something – I well, there’s something I needed to tell you, well, I’ve been meaning to say…”

“Hawke.” She stops her pacing at his voice, taking a seat beside him. Her fingers tap against her knees, her legs still bouncing nervously.

“I, ah, went to see a healer. The other day. In town.” His heart seizes. His hands clench into fists. Something is wrong. Something is wrong with his Hawke. “She said, ah, she said that the problems I’ve been having. With my magic. It’s common for mages. Who are. Who, ah…”

“Hawke. You are frightening me.” She finally looks up from staring at the ground, her eyes wide, to see him. His bottom lip trapped beneath teeth, his knuckles white, his eyes heartbreakingly worried. One of her hands immediately moves to his as she pulls herself closer. She’s practically in his lap, her arms around his shoulders, her temple pressing against his.

“Common for mages who are pregnant,” she finally whispers into his ear. His arms, wrapped around her, suddenly stiffen. He pulls her closer, his hands shaking for a much different reason than fear. Her head drops to his shoulder. “Please say something,” she says quietly. He holds her tighter, reaching for her, pulling her into a deep kiss. Their noses press together, teeth clicking together in his urgency.

“I am – are you happy?” Fenris asks, pulling away, his hands on her arms. She’s smiling, blinking back tears as she nods.

“If you – if you are!” He pulls her back for another kiss, brushing strands of hair away from her face.

“Yes Hawke, yes, I’m happy,” he tells her, and she gives him a wet laugh in return. He pulls her to her feet, one arm around her waist, the other holding her hand. He laughs as he dances with her around the fire, his forehead pressing against hers.


	84. A Secret (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“Can I tell you a secret?” FenHawke (Happy)"

Hawke has her head thrown back, laughing as Isabela spins her in her arms. The Hanged Man is almost empty, their rag-tag group the last patrons remaining. Sebastian is leaning back in his chair, a dazed look on his face, head swimming with alcohol. Varric and Aveline are talking together, laughing about how effective hitting thieves with a stop sign is. Anders is half draped over the table, a line of drool running from his mouth, surrounded by a wall of empty ale mugs. Merrill is turned in her seat, laughing and clapping as Hawke and Isabela dance.

Both their faces are flushed with drunkenness and happiness, one of Hawke’s arms around Isabela’s waist as they move closer together. Isabela motions for Merrill and the three women slowly spin in a circle, still laughing, still whispering together. They collapse in their seats together, Isabela throwing herself over Anders, who grunts. Hawke takes her seat beside Fenris, gives him a beaming smile. He can’t help but give her one back.

Aveline carries Merrill on her back, Merrill kicking her feet in glee. Anders is practically using Varric as a cane, Sebastian on the other side of him. Hawke’s steps keep her crashing in Fenris, giving him an apology and a giggle each time it happens. The walk back to Hightown is slow, interrupted by Hawke’s stuttering steps. Eventually, Fenris simply has to take her hand and drag her along.

She’s all sorts of warmth as she hums, hand wound tight in his. Her head eventually finds his shoulder, wrapping herself around his arm like a vise. He’s amazed they can get to her estate without the two of them falling over. “Fenris,” she says, grabbing at his tunic and pulling him back. They’re standing at her door, Hawke practically leaning upon it.

She makes a small hum of appreciation when he comes back at her touch, wrapping her arms over his shoulders and leaning into him. She makes small mewling noises as she nuzzles into his neck. “Fenris,” she says warmly as his arms slowly wrap around her waist. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course Hawke,” he says. He can feel her smile against his neck as she holds him tighter.

“I still love you,” she says softly. He holds her a little tighter, closes his eyes. Three years and still the guilt plagued him. He loved her as well. It still burned as brightly as the first time he had realized it. But he wasn’t – he couldn’t – she deserved – his thoughts break when she pulls away from him slightly, a lopsided smile on her face. She presses a kiss to his cheek, and slips inside her estate. She leaves him dazed on her doorstep.


	85. No One Else (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“I have to say, I am equal parts scared and fascinated.” FemHawke x Anders"

Here in the deep roads, he wonders at how powerful she is. She’s more physical than any other mage he’s ever seen, running to the front with her hands aflame. She and Aveline weave together, the shield and the storm, Hawke the deadliest cut of Aveline’s blade. She wields her staff with deadly fury, unafraid to bring the head of it down upon a darkspawn’s skull. Flame follows metal, the lava that lights the tunnels not as bright as she.

He and Varric stay towards the back. Anders lays a trap for the approaching alpha, roots it to the ground. Varric’s bolts are steady and repetitive, piercing soft flesh as they find their mark. Aveline winces when a sword nicks her arm. He sends his magic towards her, healing it before it can even bleed. Hawke doesn’t seem to need his help. In fact, she’s laughing.

She says something to Aveline, something he can’t hear over the din of battle, and soon, she is laughing as well. Two whirling dervishes, smiles on their lips, a gleam in their eyes. He’s seen that gleam before in other mages. Back when he was locked in a tower. Back when a demon was preferable to the Templars. It frightens him, scares him, at the thought of Hawke falling to a demon. No, no, Hawke would never.

It also fascinates him, the carefree way in which she moves. Or at least, the seeming freedom of it. There’s control in her power, every move calculated. Ice at their feet, a blade at their throats. Bolt, bolt, bolt. They tear through the horde quickly. Hawke claps a hand to Aveline’s back, grins as Aveline shakes her head and sheaths her sword.

She brushes back hair from her eyes as she moves towards him. “Alright, yeah?” She asks, her staff held loosely in her hands.

“No mage fights the way you do,” Anders tells her. She throws back her head and laughs.

“I doubt there are many like me, that’s true.” She’s wrong. There’s no one else like her.


	86. Thinking Of (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “I – wait shit, what were YOU thinking of? This is embarrassing.”

He rolls over in their bed, presses his forehead against her temple. His hand, gentle on her cheek, turns her to face him for a kiss. “I have been doing some thinking,” he says, and her eyes flicker open sleepily. Hawke smiles at him, moves over to be closer, entwining their legs together. His hand brushes hair away from her face, traces over her shoulder and comes to rest upon her arm.

“Oh?” She asks, “what about?” She moves her face closer, her nose touching his. Fingers trace the line of his jaw and linger there. She memorizes the feel of him, her thumb rubbing small circles against his cheek.

“Now that Bodahn and Sandal have gone, the house is… quiet.”

“I never thought you’d mind that,” she says.

“I do not, I just…” his eyes look away from hers. “We are alone here and the house has space for more.” She holds her breath, fingers stilling their movements.

“Fenris?” she asks, her voice low, “are you asking what I think you’re asking?”

“I do believe that a puppy would also make Mr. Barks happy, to have company of his own kind.”

“Maker’s breath!” She breaks into a startled laugh, rolls away from him and covers her face with her hand. “You’re talking about a dog!”

“Ah, yes. What did you think I was talking about?” She peeks at him through the cracks between her fingers, still laughing.

“This is embarrassing… Children, you goose,” she says, rolling back to him and pinching his cheek. He traps her in his arms, presses her close against his chest. He plants a kiss to the top of her head, listening to her pleased murmurs against his skin.

“Maybe… one day.”

“Yes,” she says, “but not too soon, please.” She escapes him just enough to tilt her face upwards, draw him into another kiss.


	87. Satinalia (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift for a friend

It’s been weeks since Bartrand left them in the Deep Roads. Hawke sits on a large stone, her legs folded against her chest, her chin on her knees. Her staff and pack sit beside her, at the bottom of the rock, and her fingers play with loose pebbles. Anders and Varric are pouring over maps together, trying to chart an area of the Roads both of them know no Warden has been to before. Fenris crosses his arms, leans against a wall.

Every day it’s the same – _we’re close to the surface_. Just a little bit father. Hawke closes her eyes, hums out a lullaby. It’s not one that Fenris recognizes but Anders pauses in his argument with Varric to listen a moment and smile. She finds a larger pebble, casts it to the ground below. When her eyes open, she looks straight at him and smiles. Fenris flushes without meaning to, glances away from her.

Packed in the Deep Roads, he’s gotten to know all of them far too well. He knows Hawke hates the Deep Roads, fears the darkspawn. He knows Anders worries the darkspawn can find them because of the taint in his blood. He knows Varric doesn’t hear the Stone, thinks it’s a crock of shit.

He knows Hawke lights fire in her palm at night when the others are sleeping, watches the light play on a ceiling of stone. He knows she is kind, understanding. She plays cards with him by firelight, chatters with him about nothing. Whenever he speaks, she is always silent, watching and listening intently. She listens as though his words hold her whole world. He thinks she might be the first friend he’s ever made. She’s made it easy.

Hawke scampers down from the rock, crouches down by her pack, rustling through it. She pulls something from it, wrapped in brown paper. She holds it behind her back and makes her way towards Fenris. “I have something for you,” she tells him with a grin. She holds out the package before her, presses it into his chest. “A gift, for Satinalia. I’m guessing we must be close. I brought them just in case.”

Fenris holds the package tight in his hands, feels the paper crinkle under his grasp. “I – ah, did not get anything for you.” Hawke smiles, chuckles.

“Open it,” she urges. He does as she asks, fingers tearing at paper, revealing the treasures underneath. “I made them myself. You don’t know how cold it gets in Kirkwall, thought they might be useful.” Carefully knitted gloves, a scarf, a hat that hangs longer on two sides (for his ears, she tells him.) She steals the hat from his grasp, places it on his head. “Hope you like it.”

Warm not just from the hat, Fenris smiles. “I do, thank you Hawke.” Another cheerful grin before she’s bounding away, back to her bag, pulling two other gifts from it. Parchment for Anders, for his manifesto. A comb for Varric, specifically for his glorious chest hair. We’re close to the surface and for once this statement rings true. Hawke practically collapses in the grass, rolls around in the dirt as she stares at the blue sky, bright sun.

Fenris keeps her gifts close. He puts them in the only clean drawer he has, with all the other things he’d like to keep safe. The fact that he did not have a gift for her pings guilt at him. He does not know what she would want. She’s never asked for anything, expressed any need for anything she didn’t already have. It takes him longer than the time they were in the Deep Roads to find a gift.

“What’s this?” She asks, amused, as he hands her the box with the poorly done bow.

“For Satinalia,” he tells her.

“That was months ago,” she says, but grins as she pulls at the ribbon. She gasps when she sees it, pulls the necklace from the box, and holds it in her hand. A gold chain, a small blue stone. The color of her eyes. “Fenris, this is…”

“I hope you like it.”

“I do,” she smiles. She wears it immediately, touches it as it bounces against her chest. She leans forward, her arms wrapping around him, pulls him into a warm hug. “Thank you, Fenris.” He closes his eyes, returns the hug. He knows a lot about Hawke. He wants to know more. She’s his first friend. She makes it easy. He wants more.

“You are welcome, Hawke,” he says softly.


	88. No Shame (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Hawke knows no shame. So when Fenris tells Varric there was no sweeping involved, she is like "Pfff there was LOTS of sweeping." and then proceed to describe to him in great details glowing kiss scene. Fenris at first try to stop her but then give up, partly because she is too happy doing so and partly because he knows Varric would put this in book and then everybody would know she is his."

Isabela’s head is in her arms, snoring peacefully against the Hanged Man’s table. Merrill is leaning against her, head on her shoulder, sleeping much more quietly. The Hanged Man has emptied, all except for them, haunting their usual table. Sebastian has his arms crossed, leaning back in his chair, and it’s difficult to tell if he only has his eyes closed or is sleeping as well. Hawke is sitting beside Fenris, her fingertip tracing the rim of her glass.

He smiles at her when her hand drops beneath the table, slips itself into his. “So,” Varric says, as casually as he can, “you and Hawke?” He directs the question at Fenris, raising his eyebrows and taking another swig of ale. Fenris narrows his eyes suspiciously. Aveline watches the interaction with a smirk.

“What about us?”

“Want to make sure I get all the details right when I tell this story. Did you sweep her off her feet or was it the other way around?” Inwardly, Aveline is breathing a sigh of relief. No more questions about the guard. No more questions about Donnic.

“I’m not telling you anything but this: there was no actual sweeping involved,” Fenris says as he shakes his head.

“But there was _sweeping_ ,” Hawke interjects, a hand over the rim of her glass. “I was thoroughly _swept_.” Isabela suddenly jolts back to life, eyes appearing, and then a lop-sided grin as she plants her elbow on the table, props her face up with her fist.

“Do tell,” she purrs as Merrill’s face scrunches together at the sudden position change, but does not wake. Hawke’s eyes spark with sudden glee.

“He pinned me against the wall,” Hawke sighs dreamily, her mind distant and far away. Fenris watches the smile that spreads across her face. That memory is tainted, for him. Tainted with his cowardice. She never seems to mind. He watches as she lights up, her free hand ghosting fingers over her lips. Varric would write every sordid detail, which he knew.

Good. Hawke was _his_.

He wanted the marriage offers to stop. The hopeful flirting. She may be a Champion, a Lady of privilege, but she was also his Marian, soft and warm, safe in his arms. “If I recall correctly,” Fenris says, “it was you who was doing the pinning.” Isabela practically squeals, her face in her hands, giddy with delight. Varric is paying rapt attention, half in disbelief that the prickly elf was talking about how good Hawke’s mouth tasted.

“She started with the tongue first,” Fenris says, while Hawke watches, still being swept, swept, swept, taken away by the mischievous smile on his lips, the playfulness that glitters in the green.


	89. No Scars (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Because you make amazing fanfics and as someone who already sort of feels a kinship in a small way with Fenris I wish you would write a fic with Fen having a background with self harm, or being extra reluctant to touch in any situation or especially in a sexual way."

He realizes it slow, that things are changing. It’s a flutter in his chest when she smiles at him, warmth in his core when she reaches for him. They walk side by side, and her fingertips play gently at his. She gives him time enough to say no, to pull away. He captures her hand in his instead, winds their fingers together. There’s something sweet in the way she laughs, so much so that he can almost taste it. She invites him to dinner at her estate – after all, her mother thinks he’s wonderful. There’s a glint in her eye that suggests she thinks he’s wonderful too.

They sit side by side on the couch after dinner, in front of the fire. Leandra has gone to bed, Bodahn and Sandal have disappeared elsewhere. She has her knees at her chest, arms wrapped around her legs, chatting with him happily. He finds it easier to talk with her than any other. One arm detaches from her legs, fingertips on the back of his hand. He flips his hand over, so that they are palm against palm, wrapping together gently. Hawke is still talking, Fenris’s cheeks have turned a subtle shade of red.

She leans forward, knocks her forehead against his. “Fenris,” she asks, “may I kiss you?” She’s untangling herself from her, kneeling on the couch beside him, a hand on his cheek. She tucks hair behind his ear, tracing the shell of his ear. She follows it down the line of his jaw, stopping at his chin.

“Yes,” he tells her. It’s barely audible, barely a whisper. She gives a pleased huff, smiles and presses the smallest kiss to his lips. It’s only an instant. He wants more. He’s realized it slow, this change in their relationship. He stays longer at her mansion, she at his. There’s touch that lingers, the warmth that spreads. Another kiss, and another, each growing in length. He’s beginning to not be so shy with his touch on her, learning what it was to feel human heat.

He no longer wears his armor when he knows she is coming over, or he to hers. They lie in his bed together, side by side, their hands wound between them. Dark hair is falling over her forehead, their legs entangled together. She leans forward, their noses touching, reaches for a small kiss. Her hand moves from his, settles on his waist. He flinches when he feels her touch underneath his tunic, against the skin of his hip, automatically reaches out and grabs her by the wrist. He doesn’t want her to know. She’d feel them, those scars, and know his shame.

“Fenris,” she says and he slowly lets go of her hand. It moves to his face, settles on his cheek, thumb moving in soft circles. “Fenris.” She closes her eyes, kisses the tip of his nose. “Fenris.” A kiss on the lips. “It’s alright.” She repeats it, over and over. It’s alright, it’s alright. He allows himself to fall into the lull of it, to ease the tense line of his shoulders, to settle back into comfort. He knows she’ll understand. He knows she’ll wait.

He realizes it slow, that he loves her. It’s a flutter in his chest when she smiles at him, warmth in his core when she reaches for him. They walk side by side, and she takes his hand in hers. She’d not hesitated, agreed to find Hadriana immediately. Palm again palm, her own unique feel, he feels calmer with her than he would alone. Safer. Loved.


	90. A Touch (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "All his time in slavery Fenris is afraid of touch. Hawke notice this and try not to be so clingy like she is with everybody else, eventually they warm to each other and Glowing Kiss Scene is happening, but after it its just like at the begginig, he flinch whenever she touch him, and its her time to be afraid of touch. She don't want him to leave again. So she don't touch him. After they killed Denarius and went back to being together, everthing end up after that single kiss. They meet and talk, walk together and read for each other, but she dont touch him. No goodbye kiss, no holding hands, no light touches. After some time he is at his limit and pin her to wall, joining their foreheads and beg her to touch him. Because men saying 'Touch me' is my biggest weakness :)"

Isabela is all cheerful smiles after a battle, a bloodstained arm over your shoulder. Merrill leans into whoever’s nearest, holding to her staff and beaming a smile upwards. Varric is pats on the back, Aveline is a hand on the shoulder. Anders pulls and lifts, looking for any injury he might have missed. Hawke is a hugger. She knows what Fenris is. She sees it from the first. She sees it in the careful distance he keeps, the way he keeps to the edges. She sees it in the way he shies away from all others, ensuring they cannot reach him. Hawke may be a hugger, but she knows not to hug him.

He wears his armor to the Hanged Man. The first time she places a finger on the back of his gauntlet, he pulls away instantly. He hides his hands under the table for the rest of the night. The second time she places a finger on the back of his gauntlet, he keeps it there for some time before he pulls away. The third time she places a finger on the back of his gauntlet, it stays there for the whole night. She’s not sure what to do the night he doesn’t wear his armor. A tentative finger, looking at him and seeking permission. He keeps his palm flat against the table, allows her pinky to rest against his.

He takes a blade for her. Stands in the way of the bandit and allows the knife to sink into his flesh instead of hers. Anders pronounces him healed and she cannot stop herself from throwing her arms around his neck. Fenris goes stiff as a board but allows her this single selfish touch without pulling away. Alone, at night, he traces her arms around his neck. Imagines he can still feel the way her fist shook against his back. The way she pressed against him so desperately.

He shrugs off no further touches of hers. He’s starved for them, although he’ll never admit to that. Although he’ll never tell her. He savors the split second of her hand at his back in thanks, the way she brushes hair out of his eyes, the reaching touch for his knee as they sit side by side. Their shoulders brush together, she leans against him and somehow it’s still not enough. He craves it more than he should.

It’s not enough, it’s not enough, even as she reaches for his arm and he’s pushing her up against the wall, his markings aflame. It’s not enough; the taste of her on his tongue, her lips on his. It’s not enough; she turns them, flips them, pressing herself against him. It’s not enough; his hands on her waist, on her back, searching, seeking, wanting more, more, more. Her face in his hands, breathing hot and heavy. Her hands on the clasps of his armor, shedding as they go. He drinks in her skin, needs the way she moves against him, her hands running from shoulder to spine, her legs wrapped around his waist.

It’s a terrible need, an aching one, one he denies himself for three empty years. He keeps careful distance, staying at the edges. He shies away from all others, ensures that she cannot reach him. He shrugs off her touch. He flinches away from her. He can’t, he can’t. He keeps himself starving. He seeks to place that need in something else, someone else, and hopes he’ll find it in his sister. Varania comes carrying terror with her instead.

Hawke tells him he isn’t alone. He’s never wanted to burden her like this. With him. He feels that desperate need and finds he cannot deny it any longer. A kiss that doesn’t last. A Hawke that doesn’t touch. She gives him the space he doesn’t want anymore. He takes her by the hand, presses it to his chest. “Touch me,” he begs, his forehead against hers. His heart pounds as he says it, fearing her answer. She says nothing, but cups his face in her hands. Wet, warm, as desperate as he is, needing and hungry.


	91. An Agreement (Fenris x Anders x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Anders and Fenris agreeing on something"

She’s restless from the first. She can barely move, but still she wants to run. She presses a hand to the bandages around her waist, glares at her jailors. “You need your rest,” Anders tells her from the end of the bed, his arms crossed. “You’ll ruin all my hard work.” All the countless hours of magic poured into her belly, making her whole after the battle with the Arishok.

“I’m bored,” Hawke pouts.

“How upsetting for you,” Fenris says dryly, sitting in a chair by her bedside, a book in his lap. Hawke huffs, sinks into the bed and rolls over, pulling the blanket over her head.

“No sympathy,” comes her muffled voice.

“None,” Anders says as he takes a seat on the other side of the bed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Fenris simply grunts agreement, opens his book and begins to read.

* * *

Fenris cups her face in his hands, brushes hair behind her ears. She’s desperately leaning into him, her hands on his shoulders, kneeling on the bed with him. He finds her mouth with his, pulls her lip between his teeth. An opening given, his tongue slips inside to find hers, and he savors the small mewls she makes. Anders, kneeling behind her, runs a hand from hip to rib, presses a kiss to her shoulder.

Fenris’s hand slips downwards, past breast and belly, a finger pressing at the sensitive nub that makes her shake. Anders cups her ass, hand moving between her legs, finding wet folds. Together, they work at her, Fenris’s other hand pinching at her nipple. Anders presses a finger against her entrance, slowly pushes inside. Hawke bites at her bottom lip, arms draped over Fenris’s shoulders, muffling cries against his neck.

A hand winds into his hair, Hawke’s teeth at his skin. Her other hand trembles against his back. His arms wrap around her, hold her steady. Anders reaches for her hips, pulls them closer to him so that she’s stretched out even further. He takes his cock in hand, aligns it with her dripping cunt. He throws his head back as he buries himself inside her to the hilt, his hands bruising on her hips.

Hawke groans against Fenris, and he holds her as she shakes with every one of Anders’s thrusts. Hawke’s mouth tastes like strawberries and alcohol, sweetness and mischief. When Anders presses his lips to Fenris, he tastes like smoke and blueberries. Fenris is all wine and apples, and the mage is loud in his approval. He moans against Fenris’s mouth, his hips slamming against Hawke.

Her hand slips from his hair, following his chest downwards, wrapping a hand around Fenris’s cock. She strokes him in time with every thrust, her hand tight and warm, a mimicry of her cunt. Fenris is satisfied with it, but Hawke is not. She pushes him down, arranges him on the bed to her liking. He cannot stop the gasp that comes with Hawke’s first lick against the underside of his shaft, her tongue teasing at the tip.

Pink that flashes quickly, catches the salt of him. He groans, winds a hand in Hawke’s hair as she swallows him whole, cheeks hollowing, that damnable tongue of hers still moving. Her elbows are on the bed, a hand entwined with Fenris’s. “Yes,” Anders is gasping, blonde locks falling free about his face, his expression that of one utterly lost. Lost in the feeling of her cunt squeezing tight around him, the heat that comes with it, watching as she sucks off Fenris.

It’s enough to make any man crumble. Anders bends over, his hips snapping at a punishing speed, and it is Hawke who gives in first. She clenches around his cock in waves, her toes curling, hand shaking, tongue stilling for the briefest of moments. Anders pulls himself free of her, hand twisting at the base of himself, stroking himself to completion. He comes in spurts, streaking lines across Hawke’s back.

When Hawke raises her head, she’s wiping at the corners of her mouth, swallowing every last drop of Fenris’s cum. It’s Anders who finds the towel, cleans off her back lovingly. They curl up together, Hawke nestled in the center, her lovers at either side of her.


	92. Still Dreaming (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“Am I dead?” “No, but you’re going to wish you were.” "

He opens his eyes with his head on her lap, her fingers running through his hair. She’s humming as she leans against the tree, movements absentminded and affectionate. Sunlight filters through the canopy of leaves, swaying through a gentle breeze. Hawke has a smile at the corner of her lips, her eyes closed. She’s so bright, much brighter than the sun. She takes away his fear, his anger, and all things hateful. She’s replaced it with something akin to calm, something like happiness. Fenris reaches upwards, his hand drifting against her cheek. Her eyes open, the smile grows wider.

“Hello you,” she says, the fondness evident in her voice. She leans down, raven-hair leaving its ordered place to brush against his forehead as she kisses the tip of his nose. “You’re awake.” His very core warms at such a simple gesture, at the sight of her tucking her hair back behind her ear. It’s too good, all of it. All of her. With _him_.

“Am I dead?” He sighs, his eyes closing, for that must be the answer. If this is the afterlife the Maker promised, then he never wanted to leave. She chuckles, her hand leaving his hair, tracing the shell of his ear, the line of his jaw.

“No,” she says, “but you’re going to wish you were.” His eyes snap open as her hands lock around his throat, shifting to straddle him. She chokes the air from him, a smile that curls and curls, twists and shifts, eyes that change, black that shifts into grey.

“You think you could get rid of me?” Danarius hisses as Fenris’s hands dig into his arms. He is trying, but the lyrium will not ignite. Desperate, panicked, his legs kick, his hips buck, trying to shake the Magister off of him. Danarius is squeezing out the last bit of air he has, and he cannot – his mouth open, unable to make sound, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

Fenris wakes with a heaving gasp, drenched in a cold sweat. The fire has died down into embers, and there is only the light of the moon left in the room. Hawke, on her side, sleeping peacefully beside him. Fenris gulps down air, forces himself to remember where he is. He is in Hawke’s estate. Danarius is dead. He is safe. Hawke is sleeping beside him, beside him.

He curls in against her, legs tangling up with hers, his chest against her back, and his arms around her. He breathes in the scent of her, that edge of lavender. She murmurs as she adjusts to the warmth at her back, her hand finding Fenris’s. It is enough for her to settle against him, hold his hand tightly. His breathing slows. His heartbeat calms. Her hair tickles against his face as he holds her close.

She sighs, fingers twitching against his with some unknown dream. “Fen.” He blinks at his name, lifting his head to look at her as much as he is able. She’s still sleeping, but there’s a smile crossing her face. “Fen,” she breathes blissfully. He holds her a little tighter.


	93. A Sister, A Family (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I wish you would write a fic where Fenris can learn to forgive his sister. That she was as influenced in her actions by Denarius, and fear as he used to be. leaving Tevinter would put her in the circle. In Tevinter she had no status, no protection."

The streets of Kirkwall were never known to be kind. They were especially cruel to those who did not know all the dark corners, the twisting roads, the lurking grins, the waiting knife, and the hand in the pocket. Varania keeps her hands fisted at her chest, eyes lowered to the ground as she walks.

That _thing_ was no brother of hers. He did not know how long she had endured, scraping together coin for herself and an ill mother. No one would take them as slaves since their freedom had been given. An opportunity to be a magister, to be in a place of position… another thing this ‘Fenris’ had taken away from her. Now she was simply lost.

Eyes follow her as she moves. She does not look up. She’s long learned how to keep her head bowed, to stay meek, stay small. It helps her in Tevinter (no one cares about a lowly elf), it does not help her here. “Varania!” Her name, shouted behind her. She turns, startled, and sees the raven-haired woman. The one Danarius called Champion. The one Fenris called Hawke. She slows in front of her, her brows knitting together. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

“Why does it matter to you?” The woman’s face softens, eases into a smile.

“I have room for you. Food. Somewhere safe,” she says and Varania flinches when Hawke settles her hand on her shoulder. It’s a light touch, enough to shake off easily if she wanted to. It’s meant to be comforting. It makes Varania want to cry.

"I have nothing to give you.”

“I don’t want anything. I’m simply asking for you to make a choice. Stay, and discover the man your brother has become. The man I know to be loving, and good. Leave, and I will give you coin enough for a ship back to Tevinter.” The man her brother has become. She remembers Leto’s laughter, running after her in the courtyard, a protective brother, fierce and proud. She’s never dared to have that back. Now she’s not sure if she wants to.

She spends a week in the Hawke estate before she sees him again. Hawke leading him by the hand, sitting them across from each other at her kitchen table. He wears no armor, only a simple tunic, and Varania cannot help but stare at the markings that line his skin. He has his hands clenched together on the table, his eyes cast away from her and to the ground, red on his cheeks. Hawke presses a kiss to the crown of his head, ruffles his hair affectionately before leaving them to each other.

“This is – difficult. Danarius, was…” Fenris closes his eyes, shakes off whatever thought was festering. “I would like to move forward, begin anew. I would like to get to know you,” he says, finally looking at her. Green eyes meet green eyes, and Varania sighs. She folds her hands in her lap, begins to speak.


	94. Nightmares (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "so prompt! Imagine Fenris suddenly waking up in the morning. He dont know what hour is it, or what day of week. But he know he oversleept. And he panic, thinking of all things he should do. He should prepare bath, breakfast, he should wake his master long time ago and he panic thinking of punishment that awaits him. But then he feel movement and looking aside he see Hawke curled in sleep. And he decide to sleep a bit more."

She lies on her stomach, face in the pillow, arms splayed beside her. She isn’t quite sure what wakes her at first. Before she even opens her eyes, she can feel it. Fenris tossing and turning in his sleep, whispering quick and panicked words in Tevene. She moves carefully, brushes sweat soaked locks from his forehead. “Fenris,” a light hand on his chest, trying gently to wake him. She knows what nightmares feel like. She knows that the panic will follow in waking.

Sure enough, he comes to with a gasp, rolling out of the bed. He lands on the floor, hunched on his knees. One hand at his chest, the other fisted in the sheets. Hawke carefully slips from the bed, makes her way towards him. He’s breathing heavily, his eyes at the floor, searching for something he isn’t seeing. She kneels down before him, fingertips on his cheeks, pulling his face to look at hers. “It’s alright,” she says, “you’re with me. In Kirkwall.”

He squeezes his eyes closed, his brows knitting together. She moves closer, wraps her arms around him, his head at her chest. She runs her fingers through his hair as his breathing calms, and he slowly returns her embrace. “Hawke,” he says in a muffled voice, “my apologies, I di-”

“Shh, shh. It’s okay.” When she rises to her feet, she pulls him along with her. “Come back to bed.” She slides back in easily enough, holds open the covers for him. She allows him to take his time, to collect himself before sinking back into the bed once again. He lies on his side, and she on hers, the both facing each other. He extends one hand between them, and she takes it with a smile. She leans forward, raven hair trailing behind her, and presses a kiss to the tip of his nose.

He watches as her eyes close, and she slowly drifts to whatever dream awaits her. She never pulls her hand from his. In her sleep, she moves closer, seeking his warmth. This close, he cannot forget where he is. This close, he can’t get lost.


	95. Inquisitor (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Ok idk if you've done anything like this, but I wish you'd write an Inquisitor Fenris! I see some fanart of fenris as the inquisitor and that kind of situation always sounds uber cool and interesting"

They’ve been following Varric’s trail for weeks now. Fenris had never heard such colorful language from Hawke when she’d realized the Seekers had taken him. Now the trail has gone quiet, and for the first time in a long time, they are no longer on the move. Instead, they’ve brought him to the bloody Conclave. Hawke cannot set foot anywhere near Haven, for the risk of being recognized. So now Fenris sits in a chair, Hawke’s hands in his hair, dyeing it a muddy black.

The markings on his chin can be easily hidden by a well-placed scarf. Fenris has had years of practice in making himself small and unnoticeable. It is he who will slip into the halls of the Conclave, search for their friend. Hawke will stay in the town, find as much information as she can there. “I should have stayed in Kirkwall. Then Varric wouldn’t be in this mess.” The frown stitches between Hawke’s brows, the worry at every corner of her mouth. Fenris is all too happy to kiss such things away.

“We had no choice,” he tells her. “Besides, Varric is more than capable of talking himself out of trouble.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” she sighs, “that mouth of his is going to get him killed. Knowing him, he’ll sass the damn Divine and then they’ll hang him for blasphemy.” Fenris laughs, wraps an arm over her shoulders. Their heads rest against each other’s, and her hand reaches for his free one.

“Be careful,” she says.

“You as well.”

* * *

She hears it before she sees it. A rising whine, a sharp whistle before the cacophony of noise. The ground shakes, the air thickens. She races outside to see the Temple of Sacred Ashes in ruin, a rift to the fade hanging in the sky. The Temple. The Temple. Where Fenris was. She takes off running immediately, towards Haven, towards the smoke, heart pounding in her chest, pulse sickly with panic. She pushes through crowds, full tilt forward, unable to stop.

She can hear the whispers from the crowd, from the soldiers. Everyone dead. No survivors. The Conclave is lost. The Divine has been killed. Templars and mages both retreating to their corners, ready to finish their battle as demons rain down from the sky. No survivors. Everyone dead. She hears the whispers and does not allow herself to believe them.

She’s stopped by soldiers at the edge of the Temple. Too many demons. Too many questions. Hysterical, unable to calm, all it takes is one hearty sweep of magic to push them all away. That is what draws attention. “Birdie!” Hawke turns, her staff in hand, magic at her fingertips. “Birdie,” Varric says, his arms out towards her, “we found Broody. Fenris is alive. Birdie. Hawke. Put the staff down.” The soldiers that surround her are looking between each other, ready to fight this wild mage.

It is Hawke who folds first. “Take me to him.” She can’t stop the desperation from slipping out. The Seeker Varric calls Cassandra leads them to a small hut in Haven, where a bald elf is kneeling over an unconscious Fenris. Hawke immediately collapses to his side, her hands on Fenris’s face.

“Fenris, it’s me. Please wake up,” she begs.

“He cannot hear you. There is a chance he may never wake,” the bald elf says. Hawke finds it easy to sink into quick anger, to fist her hands into his tunic and snarl at him. It’s only Varric’s hand on her shoulder that convinces her to let him go. She’s pushing her own magic into Fenris, feeling for the hurt and finding it on his hand. She turns over his hand to see a glowing green rift in his palm.

“I shouldn’t have let you go alone,” she says, covering his hand with hers, pressing her forehead against his. “Please, _please_ wake up.”


	96. Having Feelings (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“I’m in love…shit” That little shit at the end totally got me"

“You are unharmed?” Fenris stands before her, blood-soaked and puzzling, cocking his head as his gaze drifts from head to toe. It isn’t the first time he’s asked her this after a battle. She’s sure it won’t be the last. It still takes her off-guard each and every time. He only ever asks her. It’s the way he looks at her, trying to find injury, the smallest worry in the slightest knot between his brows. Almost unnoticeable. Hawke sees it from the first.

“I’m alright. And you?” Fenris nods as he sheathes his sword. Then he is turning, walking away from her, his inquiry complete. Isabela chats happily at him, and he gives only small and curt answers in return. She sighs as she shifts in her stance, begins to walk after them.

He helps her move furniture into the Amell estate. Leandra bribes him with pastries and sweets, the promise of a home cooked meal. He is always polite and kind to her mother, same as he is polite and kind with everyone else. She never sees that little knot when he speaks to anyone else. Even when Isabela’s arm takes a shallow cut, or when Varric takes an arrow to the shoulder. Onto the next.

“You are unharmed?” He stands before her, and she swears his ears drooped slightly when he asked her. She tells him she is fine, and yes, his ears perk up as he nods. She smiles at his back, covers it with her hand. She turns slightly when Isabela sets her gaze on her, grins wickedly. Onto the next.

“You are unharmed?” She nods, even as she winces with her next step. A silly twist of her ankle.

“That looks painful,” Isabela flits next to Fenris, grinning at Hawke, “you shouldn’t walk on that! You’ll just make it worse.”

“It’s fine, I’m fine-” but Fenris is taking the sword from his back, passing it to Aveline. Then he turns, kneels down before her. From the side, Isabela gives her a thumbs up and a wink. Hawke settles her arms around his neck, feels his hands underneath her thighs. He rises to his feet easily, as though she weighs nothing.

“This really isn’t necessary,” she tells him.

“You’re injured,” he tells her. He smells like wine and evergreens, and his hair is softer than she thought it would be. He asks her often if she is comfortable, and she can only give a simple yes in return. They near Kirkwall, Darktown and Anders’s clinic, before he speaks again.

“I apologize Hawke. Next time, I will be quicker so that you do not take injury,” he says.

“It’s not your fault. I’m just clumsy, I swear. But… thank you Fenris.” If she were not at his back, she might not have seen it. The tips of his ears turn a brilliant shade of red at her thanks, at his name.

“You are welcome,” he says softly. It’s all too… Hawke feels her heart skip a beat. Fenris helps her to a seat in the clinic, and when Anders comes to attend her, he takes his leave. She watches him go, waits until he’s out the door, before she presses her hands to her face.

“Shit!” Anders looks up from where he’s kneeling on the floor, her foot on his knee.

“It hurts that much?” He asks. She pulls her hands down her face slowly.

“No, I’m – I’m having feelings,” she says as her fingers pull at her cheeks.

“Ookkkaayyy,” Anders says slowly, his eyebrows raised, shaking his head as he turns his attention back to her ankle.


	97. To Be Happy (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "FenHawke “I just want you to be happy”. "

She laughs, her cheeks flush red, and her eyes drop to the table as she tucks hair behind her ear. Such a simple gesture. She’s speaking again, an elbow moving to the table, her jaw resting against her knuckles. Her other hand is on the table as well, fingers fidgeting with the drops of condensation on her mug. As he speaks, her eyes never leave his face. When she listens, she gives her full attention. She centers on that person, makes them her world. Fenris sits across the table from her, watching as she continues to speak to Anders.

Anders leans forward toward Hawke, his hands moving in time with his words. There’s energy there, excitement, and a humor. One that makes Hawke smile, laugh, and keeps her bright and happy. Her eyes light up, and she shakes her head at some terrible joke. The grin never leaves her. Fenris looks down at the table, at all the little nicks and cuts in the wood. This is what he wanted, wasn’t it? For her to move on, to be with someone who could give her everything.

It hurts more than he expects, when he sees Anders’s hand reach for hers, taking gentle fingers away from where they fidget. Their hands knit together for a moment, before Hawke slips hers away, hides it in her lap. Anders seems undeterred, murmurs something that makes Hawke shy. Her eyes finally slip from his, cast their net across the others, land on Fenris. She holds this gaze only briefly before she drops it.

She seems quieter after that, less likely to feed into Anders’s energy. He watches as she sinks into melancholy just from looking at him. Fenris pulls coin from his pocket, throws it on the table as he rises from his seat and leaves. He’s surprised when Aveline rises as well, leaves the Hanged Man with him. “I am more than capable of walking myself home,” Fenris tells her.

“I’m sure you are,” she says. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“What?” He doesn’t break his quick pace, eager to be at the mansion and away from all others.

“What’s your goal? With Hawke?” That makes Fenris falter only slightly in his steps.

“I – ah, I have no goal. I want… I want her to be happy.”

“For the love of… the two of you are just pathetic. You know she said the exact same thing to me about you? What a crock of shit. Grow up and talk to each other. Maker’s breath,” Aveline sighs. “Give the rest of us some peace from the agony you two are throwing at each other.”

“If she wants to be with Anders-”

“She doesn’t want to be with Anders. She doesn’t want to be with _anyone_. She wants to be with you.”


	98. Even If (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ""I'll protect you no matter what... Even if it kills me." " Makers breath because I love you!" (Hawk to Fenris)"

They receive word that the Inquisitor has not returned from the closed halls of Redcliffe castle. Hawke folds the letter from Varric, rubs her eyes. They hope the Inquisitor still lives. They know that there are still agents of the Inquisition still inside. Commander Cullen plans to assault the castle, see if they can retrieve the Inquisitor. Hawke knows he will die doing it. Hawke knows the Inquisitor is likely already dead. She knows Varric feels the same. Fenris puts his hand on her shoulder.

Her hand falls on his, as she passes the letter upwards to him. She never wants to get up from this chair. She knows that the time for hiding is over. It’s time to join the fight. She hears Fenris crumple the letter, throw it away. He knows it as well. They spend one last night together, in peace. She closes her eyes as his fingers trace from temple to jaw, his thumb sliding over her lips. It is a night for touch, for memorization. They don’t know when they’ll be able to hold each other like this again.

As Hawke had predicted, Cullen dies in his attack on the castle. Corypheus, and his dragon, lay waste to Thedas’s armies. Too many are eager to bend the knee, to fold to the Elder One’s will. Better to surrender than to die. They realize too late that the Red Templars have poisoned most water sources with red lyrium. For most, they can fight through the sickness. For Fenris, it seeps into his skin. Turns his markings red.

Crystals begin to pierce through, grow from him, but still they fight on. Hawke holds Varric’s body in her arms, struggling to keep the barrier raised as she drags him from the battlefield. It’s Fenris who covers her escape. He knows she would never leave her friends to rot amongst all the other countless corpses. They’ve already buried Merrill and Isabela. They haven’t heard from Aveline in weeks. Sebastian gathers the last of his armies.

They huddle together under the bridge, in the darkness, unable to light fires for fear of the enemy finding them. Fenris leans his head on Hawke’s shoulder, unable to push himself any further. There’s an ache in his bones, an anchor of fatigue that weighs him down. She’s quiet, her knees at her chest, chewing at the skin on her thumb. “I will protect you Hawke. No Matter what,” he tells her. It may kill him, but if one thing could survive this, he would ensure it is Hawke.

Her hand drops down, finds his, holds tightly. They fall into silence as tainted soldiers march overhead, metal of their boots against stone. They barely breathe for fear of the soldiers finding them. Fenris holds her hand tighter when it begins to shake. She finally breathes out after a few moments of silence, turns to fold herself into him. There’s red _everywhere_. “I love you,” she says, squeezes her eyes shut.


	99. Of Cats (Anders x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I know it's 3am in the morning but I can't find my cat" (Anders from Awakening, HOF)"

She’s always been a deep sleeper. She was always told it would get her killed. Tonight, she snaps awake, eyes open, searching for what woke her. She hears it in the hallway, heavy footsteps, a whispering that’s growing louder with an occasional yell of, “Pounce!” She slips from her bed, feet on cold stone, moving towards the door. She presses her hear against wood, and again “Pounce!”

She pulls open her door, crossing her arms. Anders looks up, eyes wide, wearing an old sweatshirt, holding up pants that are much too large for his frame. “What. Are. You. Doing?” She hisses in a whisper.

“I lost my cat,” he sheepishly admits. She sighs, rubs her face. Part of her thinks she should ignore it, and just go back to bed.

“Didn’t I tell you to keep him in your room?” The other part of her is half amused, looking at the way Anders is desperately holding onto his pants with one hand, crouched down, a cat toy in his other hand. He looks positively crushed that she would question as to why Pounce would be out of his room.

“He wanted to explore!”

“For the love of... If the others find him…”

“Why do you think I’m up?”

Commander of the Grey, Warden-Commander, Arlessa of Amaranthine, Hero of Ferelden, is on her knees, clicking her tongue, cat treats in her hand, crawling through her own castle. Anders is running around with her, peering into every nook and cranny, looking for any trace of the wayward and noble Ser Pounce-a-lot.

It’s she who finds him first, nestled in a chair, purring when he sees her. “Naughty kitty,” she says as she picks him up in her arms, scratches beneath his chin.

“Pounce!” Anders stretches out his arms in celebration, grabs at his pants quickly to hold them up. She’s all too happy to pass the cat into his arms, listening to him as he purrs at Pounce. “Of course you went to her first, you like her don’t you, yes you do, I like her too,” he coos.

Her hands play with the ends of her shirt, one foot rubbing awkwardly at her leg as her face heats. “I’m going back to bed,” she says, beginning to walk off.

“Wait!” When she turns, there’s a pink nose in her face. “You need your kisses first.” Anders holds out Pounce, practically rubs his face on hers. “Okay, you’re good now. Goodnight!” Anders beams at her, practically skipping off, the cat in his arms.


	100. Without Me (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“You are not going without me” Fenris x Hawke"

It’s not a conversation. It’s one of the first true arguments they’ve had. Enough to have Hawke screaming at one side of the room, Fenris shouting at the other. “You know they have red lyrium!”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better about you going?”

“It’s supposed to make you understand why you can’t go!” Fenris stalks towards her, his hands crushing on her shoulders.

“You are not going without me,” he tells her. The desperation is bleeding through the anger. His grip eases, his head falls forward, hair like snowfall. “Please.” He presses his forehead against hers. “Please. Hawke.” His voice is growing quiet, softer with each and every word. “Please.” It’s fading into a whisper, a plea of silence.

Hawke’s hands are on his arms, finding their way around him, holding him close. This kiss is messier, needier than ones they’ve had recently. Kisses have been sparse, peppered with yelling, with anger, without understanding. She tastes as sweet as ever, treasures her human heat. He holds her tight, fears that if he lets her go, she’ll slip away.

There’s a certain agony to their lovemaking, the way they cling to each other. It hurts to hold. It hurts more to let go. Her hands claw at his back, his bruise at her hips. It’s the pain that makes it real, rough and rougher, pulling at hair, pushing down into the mattress. She pulls at his face, draws him into another kiss, tongues fighting for dominance as they move against each other.

In the aftermath, there’s kindness, there’s quiet touches, soft murmuring. She brushes hair from his forehead as they lie side by side, her thumb brushing over his cheek. “Do not leave me Hawke. I will protect you,” he says.

“Okay,” she says, “okay.”

He falls asleep holding her hand, lips slightly parted, breathing evenly. She is careful as she pulls away. She dresses quickly, she dresses quietly, and she pulls the prepared bag out from underneath the bed. She leaves a note on her pillow. She presses a kiss to his head. Then she slips out the door.


	101. With Moonlight (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I found you “Moonlight reflected in your eyes, balcony overlooking the sky” FenHawke"

She’d told the Inquisitor that the battlements reminded her of her home in Kirkwall. It was no lie. She spends most of her time there, unwilling and uninclined to be among the people of the Inquisition. The wind is biting so high up, sweeping in the cold from the surrounding mountains. She tugs her cloak tighter, leaning against the stone as she sinks down. Knees at her chest, arms around her legs, face tilted upwards towards the sky.

It’s the same here, just as it was at home. Stars bright and shining, moon round and brilliant. To see the same sky, to know that they did not stand the same place underneath it made her heartsick. She stretches out her legs as far as they will go, her hands touching the rock underneath her. The cold doesn’t make it go away, but the cold against her palms somehow makes her feel better. She closes her eyes and sighs. She’d need to write the letter soon. She’s not coming home. Not yet. Just a little longer. She thinks she might throw up.

She hears the footsteps, of metal gauntlets tapping against stone, and does not move. She hears the footsteps come to rest in front of her and does not open her eyes. They can just go around. Instead they stay, and she hears a sigh. “There’s room to walk around,” she snaps as she opens her eyes, tilting her face to look at the intruder.

“I thought I might sit with you instead,” he says. He does not wait for a reply as he settles down beside her. He copies her stance. Legs stretched out as far as they will go. Slouched against the stone. Palms against the ground. It is she who moves instead. Going to her knees, closer to him, to see his face. Trembling hands upon his cheeks, tracing lines she knows too well.

He is patient and says nothing as she moves, allows her to brush hair behind his ears, to touch, to feel. He does not move until she leans back, sitting against her heels, clapping a hand to her mouth and hunching over. Her hand breaks the sound of her sobs, and she hides her tears. He lets out a deep breath, pulls her hand away as he smiles.

“I thought you might be pleased to see me,” Fenris tells her.

“I-I am,” she cries, and he chuckles as he wipes the tears from her cheeks, runs a hand through messy hair. She hiccups as he leans forward, presses a warm kiss to her cool forehead.

“I have missed you. I – I found I could not be without you for any longer,” he says. It’s a confession that causes a frown, his eyes to look away from her. She throws her arms around his neck, pulling herself close to him, holding him tight.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she says, “I’m so happy you’re here.” Her arms squeeze tighter as his wrap around her. He closes his eyes and breathes her in, and the only thing that gives him away is the slightest trembling in his hands on her back. They don’t move for a very long time.


	102. In Another (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I found you “in another universe” Zevran"

The crowd seems to part for a moment and there she stands. Eyes closed, arms in the air, body moving to the music. It’s relentless, overwhelmingly loud, beating a rhythm at his skull. She moves like she’s part of it, undeterred by the bodies around her. It’s mesmerizing. She’s mesmerizing. The lights flash, flicker color, and in every shade she is beautiful. Her long hair is ties back in a braid that’s unfurling, her forehead bare to show the curling vallaslin. Branches across skin, flowing down to the tip of her nose. He fights his way through the crowd to get near her.

He doesn’t touch her, doesn’t speak, and simply assumes his place and watches. The beat changes, the crowd packs together, beginning to move as one. Feet leaving the ground, jumping with a yell, arms up and wild. The air is thick with alcohol and sweat, and it carries the electric line of something different, a current that runs through everyone. She opens her eyes, and even the trembling light cannot dull the brightness of the blue he finds there.

She does not jump like the rest, instead she leans back, lets the lightning roll through her shoulders. She keeps her eyes on him, her tongue emerging for a moment to lick the top of her lip. He’s caught, making his way towards her, a hand on her waist. Permission given, her arm wraps around his shoulders. The beat changes again, a different beast to tackle, looking at each other as the crowd jostles, pushes them closer.

She dances against him like a thing untamed, a wildness he’s never seen before. He’s helpless in her trap, caught in her net, dances with her. Shirt loose against her body, fingers finding skin as her back leans against his chest, his hand on her belly. He feels the roll of muscle, the echo of the music in her flesh. Her hand winds in his hair, pulls his head down closer to hers.

She turns in his grasp, lets her hand drift over the tattoo on the side of his face. That damnable tongue again, pink and deadly, running over red. She leans towards him, lips against his ear, asks him to leave with her. How could he say no? Her apartment is small, a brick of a thing, looking over the din of the city. Her room is messy, but her bed is warm, and it is here she dances to his song, and he to hers.

He finds she’s still perfect in the morning, lying face down, only one leg covered by the blanket. His fingers trace down her spine, watch the goosebumps follow his touch. She turns, graceful even in this, elbow in the mattress, resting her head in her hands. “Would you like breakfast?” She asks, voice still husky with sleep.

“I have a feeling that with you my dear, I would like anything,” he says and he smiles as she chuckles. She sits up, sun illuminating that skin of hers, and suddenly he’d rather just stay in that bed with her. “My name is Zevran,” he tells her as he leans in, a hand on her cheek, pressing a kiss to the other.

“Surana,” she says as his tongue traces the shell of her ear. Her hands are heavy on his shoulders but her smile is light, pushing him down to lay back against the mattress.


	103. A Blessing (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Alistair x Mage Warden (something cute)"

She’s sitting by the fire, her legs hugged to her chest, her chin resting in between her knees. She gives the fire a particularly fierce glare and it sparks alight in full force once again. She’s grumbling something to herself, pulling the blanket on her shoulders even tighter. She was lost, the first night. Stumbling over making a tent, wringing her hands together in frustration. Alistair had laughed at her meagre efforts, helped her pull it together. The second night was much the same. The third, even. On the fourth, she strung it together with her magic and from that night on.

Sten had complained at her use of it, argued that physical labour was more rewarding and that her magic was unworthy, or something akin to cheating. Morrigan argued that it was about time. Why have magic if you’re not going to use it? She didn’t take a side, but confessed to Alistair, “Every time I use a spell, I think a Templar might be around the corner, ready to scold me or…” She struggled with the next words, but she didn’t need to say it. He knew what a smite could do.

She was hopeless with a map. Staring at it for some time, her cheeks starting pink, turning even redder by the second. “I never needed a map in the tower! It’s not like I was going anywhere,” she says in a high pitched tone of voice in the corner of the camp, the map crumpled over her head and face. Alistair chuckles, and explains to her how exactly how to read a map. Gentle guidance when they head out, whispered corrections on which way to go.

The cooking, as well, eludes her. Alistair grimaces his way through far too much salt one night, sits by her the next. Grabbing her hand when she reaches for the salt. “Just – a wee little pinch,” he says. Her face drains of color.

“Oh no. Last night.”

“Yes, well…”

“Oh no.” She buries her face in her robes as Alistair pats her back sympathetically.

Tonight, sitting by the fire, shivering in the mountain cold. She’s startled when she feels it, looks up to see Alistair dropping another blanket over her shoulders. He sits down beside her, shoulder touching shoulder, and smiles. “The Tower was always warm,” she says, “this is all –”

“Very new. I understand,” he says. “After the blight is over, you’ll be a seasoned outdoorsman.” She makes a noise of disbelief, hugs the blankets even more to herself. Her teeth chatter together lightly, and glaring at the fire will not bring more warmth, no matter how hard she tries. She goes as stiff as a board as his arm makes its way over her shoulders.

“I’ve always been far too warm. I’ve yet to figure out if it’s a blessing or a curse,” he says. Eventually, the line of her shoulder easies. Her arms ease their noose around her legs. She shifts, leans against him, resting her head in the crook of his neck. He goes red, scratches his chin with his free hand. _Blessing_ , he thinks, _definitely a blessing_.


	104. Just Saying (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Because I love you – Zevran x Warden"

“A few more steps,” she’s saying to him, his arm slung over her shoulder and her arm around his waist. He supposes he could manage those steps on his own, but she’s ever so warm and her face is ever so close to his. There’s the sweat on her brow from the effort of battle, and there’s wavering in the frown from concern, jaw set from the strain of half carrying him. She lets him down gently, and he sinks gratefully on the stool that was brought for him. She stands to one side, arms crossed and chewing on her thumb, while Wynne kneels down to inspect the wound.

A single arrow, pierced through his shoulder, having found the weak points in his armor. “This will have to come out,” Wynne says, looking towards her. “Hold him steady.” She nods, moves behind Zevran. He closes his eyes when he feels her bend down, wrap her arms around him. He can feel her breath against his ear, hot and sweet. He almost doesn’t feel the arrow being wrenched from his flesh. He misses the warmth when she pulls away.

Wynne discards the arrow behind them, and she places a strong hand against the wound. He winces, but Wynne gives him a single look. He grins, not fooling the elderly mage with pretended weakness. She crouches down near him, half stumbling into the grass, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping arms around her legs. That frown she wears is lingering, half-mad but still half-concerned. “Why?” She asks him finally. “That arrow was for _me_.”

Eyes meet his as she looks up, her hands clenched in fists and knuckles white. “You jumped in front of me. You could have – you could have been hurt even worse!” The frown breaks, and she looks at him in a pleading sort of way. “Why did you take it for me?”

“Well,” Zevran says, “I couldn’t let my Warden be taken away from me! You still have to save the world, no?” A hand relaxes, fingers stretching out, and she brings said hand to her face. Soothing out the hard lines of her brow, the downturn of her lips. She pushes herself up from the grass, wanders away. His gaze lingers on her back.

“When are you going to tell her?” Wynne asks in a casual tone, only briefly looking at his face. She misses the glower he gives her. “You didn’t take it because she’s the Warden. You took it because you love her.” She practically sings it out.

“Why Wynne, I do not know what you mean,” he grumbles. The next wince he gives is real, when Wynne smacks him upside the head.

“Don’t be rude simply because you’re frustrated. It’s unbecoming,” she scolds. Zevran rubs the back of his head with the hand unoccupied, and his frown leaves Wynne to stare at her. She’s talking to Alistair, gesturing with her hands. He loves the way she speaks with her hands. Throwing her whole body into everything she says. He hates it when Alistair says something, makes her laugh. He wants her to be by his side. He could make her laugh even more. That beautiful mouth, the happy turn of her eyes. Selfish. He wants it all for him.

“It would feel better if you told her,” Wynne says softly.

“Again, my dear, I have no idea of what you speak of. Tell her? Tell her what? Shall I tell you how much I love your bosoms once again? Will you offer to let me rest my head upon them?” he smirks. Another wince, another smack.

“You see, it is not better since I have told you,” he says. She’s wandering away from Alistair, stretching hands above her head as she walks towards Morrigan. Hands on her hips, kicking at dirt beneath her feet. His Warden. A hand slips into his pocket, and he runs a thumb over the smooth edges of the earring that sits there. Better for her not to know. She’s _the_ Warden after all.


	105. Didn't Want (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I thought you didn’t want me – Fenris x Hawke"

She is a weakness. She aches in his bones, in his blood, hurts more than the lyrium ever could. He hates her. He loves her so much. He hates that he loves her because he knows that he doesn’t have the right. Not after all that he has done to her. It’s only right that she wouldn’t want him. He had his chance. He let her slip away because he was weak, he was a coward, he was a fool and he was unworthy. She is too much the sun and he belongs to the shade.

She laughs to whatever Anders is saying, elbow on the table and chin in her hands. She smiles as she listens to him speak, eyes bright, a finger tracing the rim of her mug. Another chuckle, both hands around the mug now, lifting it to her lips. A small trace of foam lingers on the side of her mouth, and he resists the urge to reach out, brush it away. It’s Anders who does that instead. Her back snaps straight after his touch, her face turning red, bringing a hand to where he had touched her.

Fenris rises from the table, leaves his own mug untouched. She doesn’t want him. This is what he thought he wanted. He thought it better if she hated him, if she stayed away. She deserved more than what poor offerings he could give. The night is cool upon his skin, but it does not chase away the fire that coils around his chest. The burning that tells him everything is wrong. It isn’t better. He needs her. She doesn’t need him.

“Fenris!” He looks over his shoulder, sees her running towards him. Away from the fires of the Hanged Man, the laughter of their friends. Towards him. He keeps walking. “Maker’s breath, Fen, wait!” Warmth on his skin as her hand finds his arm, pulls herself in. “Always trying to run away from me,” she says as she smiles at him. She keeps her arm linked in his, both hands on his skin, as tight as she can get. Cheeks flushed from running, not because of him.

“You should go back,” he says, “the others will miss you.”

“I’d rather be with you,” she tells him. He shakes his head, looks away from her.

“Fenris,” she says softly, “why are you avoiding me?” He stops mid-step, on the stairs that lead to Hightown. She lingers on the step below him, looks up at him.

“I’m not avoiding you,” he says.

“Yes,” she says, “you are. Have I done something wrong?”

“No. No, I – no,” he sighs. Her hand reaches for his, clumsy fingers locking together as she walks forward, keeps them on the same step.

“Tell me,” she says.

“I…” his hand squeezes hers before he slips out of her grip. “Perhaps another time.” He turns, resumes his walk. After a moment, still on the step, watching the stiff line of his shoulders, she follows after him. She stays that one step back from him the rest of the way. He stops at his mansion, looks at her. She’s standing in moonlight, her hands clasped behind her back.

He always looks so sad. His brows furrowed, a knot that lingers just there. She aches to brush it away, to press her lips against his and tell him all the things she can’t. After all, he doesn’t want her.


	106. The Most (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen – Alistair x Warden"

It’s a foolish thing. He finds it amongst the dust and dirt, in between the broken fingers of a fallen statue. He should have left it where it lay. Instead, he plucks it, hides it in the pocket of his armor. He takes special care to keep it safe, protect it from all things that could harm it. When he gives it to her, he tries to make it seem… seem as though it’s not as special as he wants it to be. “Do you know what this is?” He gives her a rose and the vines of something strange worm their way around his heart, thorns latching on tight.

She holds it in her hands, brings it to her face, smiles as she looks at it. “Is this a trick question?” she asks, her eyes moving away from the rose, back to him. The night sinks low, but the firelight reveals the blush upon her cheeks. Vines tighten, thorns sharpen. He tries to tell her how lovely she is, how wonderful, how he’ll protect her even more than he had the rose. Instead the words turn on his tongue, coil in his mouth, and something more like laughter comes out.

“Yes, absolutely. I’m trying to trick you. Is it working? Aww, I just about had you, didn’t I?” He says and the smile turns to a grin, and she laughs softly, like the chiming bells of the Chantry.

“Oh yes, you’re wily,” she says.

“Nefarious, even,” he says. For how could he not be? She could have her choice of any, but here he was, trying to give all that he had to offer and unable to say the words. The last Wardens of Ferelden, on a hopeless quest to stop the Archdemon. Two against a horde. He knows they’ll likely die. It’s selfish to want her so, to have her to himself. Yet the vines remain, the thorns do not loosen their hold. He wants her, needs her, for even just this moment. That’s all this quest is. A series of moments. Moments spent with her is a life he would not regret.

“I remember thinking, ‘how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?’” he says softly. “I think the same thing when I look at you.” He rambles off on some tangent about being a Warden. She smiles through each stumbled word, through each sentence that means something different, and still she keeps the rose. Fingers on the petals, feeling its softness, its lushness.

“Alistair,” she says, silencing him in the middle of the word. She closes the distance between them, places a hand on his arm. She stands on her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, it’s beautiful.” He hopes the firelight does not betray him as much as it betrayed her, as he can feel his cheeks flushing red. Yes, it’s beautiful. Not as beautiful as she is.


	107. Wanted (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I’ve wanted this for so long – Fenris x Hawke"

She sits on his bed. Hair quickly tucked back behind ears, not lacking in evidence of sleep. Her knees loosely pulled to her chest, one hand draped lazily around them. The other reaches out, touches the shafts of light that pour in through the cracks in his roof. She breathes out contentedly at the warmth on her skin, turns her hand so she may cup the sun in her palm. A strand of hair falls free, brushes against her cheek. He can count the ridges of her spine from here, and his fingers follow a trail of freckles, a pattern whose mystery he has only begun to solve. She turns her head to look at him, smiles over her shoulder.

He’s been drowning for so long. A willing death – afraid to breach the surface, loath to breathe the air he believed poison. Everything reflected through a sheen of water, unable to touch the sun that flickered through blue. Now here he lies, hand upon a sun of a different sort. He sits up, leans against her, his head upon her shoulder. He breathes in the scent of lavender, the soft lingering smell of sex, of his body pressed against hers.

Her hand touches his hair, light against the tips of his ear. Her body twists and she stretches herself out above him, weight falling gently upon him, lips upon lips as his head leans back into the pillow. Her elbows sink into the mattress as she brushes away the strands of white which cross against his forehead. She kisses him thrice in the space she has cleared, one for each lyrium dot which crowns his brow. She breathes life into his lungs, lips against lips, his hands travelling the length of her back.

Black hair mixes with white, a dark shroud which veils around them. He cannot stop holding her, touching her, willing her body to meld into his. He wants her ever closer and closer still, melding skin against skin, bone shifting into bone, too close to ever be parted again. He thinks he can keep her safe inside his chest, beside lung and throat, nestled within the branches of his heart.

“Fenris.” She fills him with the sound of her, and he closes his eyes as he touches against her cheek. He holds her face in his hands, tilts his own upwards for another kiss. “Fenris,” she says again, low against his mouth, “I love you.” An arm slips around her waist, holds her tight as he turns them, so that it is he looking down at she, black crown replaced with white. He holds this wild thing in his arms, this bird of prey, made of fire and flesh and claims it his.

“Hawke,” he murmurs, “I am yours.” Arms around his neck, hands thread through his hair. Sunlight flickers against his back, a warmth that cannot match hers. He lingers in her ocean, by her side, and aches to tell her how long he’s wanted this. Instead he holds her closer and does not let go.


	108. The Night Before (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Can I kiss you? – Zevran x Warden"

The fire has burned low. Only embers remain, the ghost of warmth. The room is dark, full of shadow, and she lies on her side, back to the door. Defenseless. Such an easy thing to kneel upon the bed, press a blade to the soft flesh of her neck. “My Warden,” he says, “If I were any other, I could have killed you.” Her eyes open instantly, and she smiles into the pillow. She rolls over onto her back, looking up at him. She wraps her fingers around the metal.

“You won’t be killing much with such a dull blade,” she says. She shifts, pushes herself up. One hand pressed into the mattress, the other reaching for his face. Her hands trace the edges of the tattoo upon his face. She tucks hair behind pointed tips, follows the shell of his ear. She lands upon his cheek once again, and she smiles as he closes his eyes, leans into her touch. The dagger is cast aside as he leans forward, presses his forehead against hers.

“You should have it sharpened before we march to Denerim,” she says and he chuckles under his breath as his eyes open.

“I have plenty other sharp things, fear not,” Zevran tells her. “I will keep you well protected.” She wraps her arms around his neck, pulls him back into the bed with her. They lie on their sides, facing each other, wrapped as closely as possible. Legs entwine with legs, his hand drifts from shoulder to hip, keeping a tight hold on her.

“I knew you would come tonight,” she says.

“Waiting for me, were you?”

“Yes,” she answers.

“I am going to kiss you now, mi amore,” he says, not waiting for her permission, and he swiftly follows through on his promise. A hand cradling the back of her neck, shifting to stretch himself on top of her. His hand slips from knee to thigh as he settles himself between her legs. He braces himself on the bed with an arm, careful to keep most of his weight from her. Her hand threads through his hair, keeps him close. Her mouth opens to his, and his tongue is wet and warm in her mouth. His hand is still drifting upon her thigh, pushing up the loose nightgown she wears.

They take their time with it, a slow thing full of gentle touches and soft whispers. He stays close to her, her breath hot upon his ear. He treasures each low moan, small gasp. Her hands fist in his shirt, flatten against his back, struggle to find a position that suits. They flutter and shift, moving down his spine, bracing against his thigh, back to wrap themselves around his neck. “My Warden, my lovely Warden,” he murmurs, bares teeth against her neck, kisses the mark he has left.

“Please,” she groans, “don’t leave me.” “I am here,” he assures her, finding her lips with his once again. There is no time for such things the next night. The next night they stand before a burning city, a horde of darkspawn, an archdemon that screams to the stars. His hand reaches for hers, holding tight. He raises her knuckles to his lips.

“I am here,” he tells her. “I love you.”


	109. Better With (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I’m better when I’m with you – Fenris x Hawke"

She had held her brother in her arms when he died. Cradling him close, fruitlessly fixing his hair, touching his face, telling him it’s going to be alright. She did not leave his side all through the long night, when the coughing grew worse, blackened blood spewing upon armor, and when he clung to her with shaking hand. “You have to do it,” he begs, “please.” Whatever her siblings have asked of her, she’s never been able to refuse.

She presses her forehead against his as she draws the knife from her belt. She’s in the middle of some sentence, talking about sunshine and apple trees, the farm they’ll never see again. The stab is swift, precise. “Thank you,” he tells her with a smile. There’s blood on her hands, on his tunic as she pulls him closer, eyes wide and hands shaking. Varric turns away. Fenris stays by her side.

They stand outside the door when they return to Lowtown. They listen at the screams from inside, Gamlen’s useless platitudes, Hawke’s silence. Leandra rages and mourns, blames her eldest for the loss of another one of her babies. Hawke slams the door behind her when she leaves.

They celebrate wealth and riches by drowning in alcohol. Hawke laughs with clenched fist, and the humor always leaves her too quickly. They watch her down drink, after drink, after drink. None of them stop her. Fenris carries her to Hightown on his back, helps her onto his bed. He holds back her hair as she throws up into a bucket. He keeps a silent hand on her back as she sobs into his pillow.

He tries to make her happy. He hurts her more instead.

She holds Leandra the same way he watched her hold Carver. Close and cradled, forehead against forehead, whispering empty promises. “I’ll find a way,” she says, “you’ll be okay.” Aveline fetches the guard. It takes three to pry Hawke away from the corpse of her mother. This time he does not carry her to Hightown, simply follows at her back. He keeps three paces behind, watching each slow step.

He follows her upstairs, to her room, picking up the armor she discards. She rolls onto the bed with resignation. Unlike with Carver, this time, her eyes remain dry. “I couldn’t protect even one,” she tells him. Hollow and blank, eyes looking at nothing. The bed sinks underneath his weight as he settles at the end of it. They do not speak for some time. T

he fire roars, crackles. He keeps his hands folded in his lap. Hawke lies on her side and does not speak, does not move. He turns his head, looks at her silent form. “I can leave if-” She sits up instantly, a hand wrapping around the red on his wrist. There’s panic in those eyes, a sort of hopelessness. She’s been holding together like frayed rope upon broken glass, and if he leaves, she’ll shatter.

“Please don’t go,” she says, “I’m better when I’m with you.”


	110. A Gift (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written as a birthday gift for a friend, featuring her Lavellan and Cullen

It’s something out of a dream, one so lovely he’s sure he’s never had it before. There are birds chirping outside, harmonious and sing-song, their melody drifting by. The wind blows and some snow makes its way through the hole in his roof, white falling into his room, onto his bed, onto her arm, her shoulders. He watches as delicate flakes melt into nothingness, gooseflesh appearing on her skin. Red hair spills across the pillow, and she shifts slightly, feeling the cold.

He moves closer to her, slipping an arm underneath her neck. Her back against his chest and he plants a kiss on her shoulder, one for each fading snowflake. She murmurs in her sleep, presses closer to him and his warmth. He reaches down, finding the blanket, pulling it over them. He closes his eyes as he leans against the pillow, brushing hair neatly into place. He likes this dream. He hopes it never ends.

She’s shifting, stretching against him like a cat. She turns in place, so that she faces him, smiles as she tucks curls behind his ear. His eyes slowly open, tracing over the branches of her vallaslin, settling on the green of her eyes. “Good morning,” she whispers, her hand settling on his cheek. A thumb that rubs small circles, feeling the stubble underneath her palm.

“Good morning Ellana,” Cullen answers back, kissing the very tip of her nose. She laughs under her breath as her ears twitch, tips coloring with happiness and pleasure.

* * *

They’re drinking in the war room. They’re laughing as they click their mugs together, sitting on the floor, leaning against the table. They’ve knocked over the delicately placed pieces during their time, and part of the map has a distinct wet circle. She’s still laughing as she presses a hand to her face, drawing up her legs to her chest. Cullen’s cloak is around her shoulders, and she’s half buried in the fur of the collar.

He has one elbow on a partially raised knee, leaning towards her. His forehead presses against her temple, lips quirking a smile. “Do you think Josephine’s still working?” he asks.

“You mean ‘is it safe to run to my room yet’?” she teases. She slaps down the empty mug upon the table as she hoists herself to her feet, one hand keeping the cloak around her. She wavers on her feet, laughing as she stumbles, buzzing with alcohol. He’s soon to follow her, hands on her waist as he trails behind her. They’re giggling through the hallway, and Ellana is pressing a finger to her lips.

“Shh, shh, let me check,” she says, waving him away. Her head slowly peeks around the corner, and soon she’s drawing back.

“She’s still there!” Ellana tells him.

“She is not going to be pleased we were drinking in the war room. Or at least… drinking,” he says, rubbing his brow.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, just follow my lead,” she says. She straightens, shoulders square, chin held high. She strides out the doorway, and Josephine raises her head to look at her, the candle on her desk burnt low. Ellana gives a polite smile, a gracious nod. You almost can’t see the way in which her steps move from side to side. Cullen has his hand pressed against his mouth, trying to stifle the laugh. He doesn’t succeed when Ellana almost makes it to the end of the room. That is, until she trips, falls with a shout, the red of the cloak flying.

He buckles over with laughter, bracing himself against the doorframe as she quickly hops back up to her feet. Eyes wide, face red, she gestures at Cullen, “run!” He does as his Inquisitor commands, sprinting across the hallway, scooping her up in his arms and throwing her over her shoulder. Ellana’s laughter and shrieks echo in the great hall, all the way up to her room.

Josephine slowly puts down her quill and sighs. The meeting with the marquise tomorrow will have to be postponed.


	111. Questions (Fenris x F!Hawke & Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Answering a series of questions about OTP's

**Is there something big that could potentially tear them apart if it was revealed? (FenHawke)**

_I don’t think Hawke’s use of blood magic would tear them apart necessarily, but I do think it would be an argument, that is for sure. For what I’ve written below, I think that he’d come to realization that she did it to save him (at any cost), and he’d help her deal with the ramifications of using blood magic._

He wakes to warmth. The feeling of arms around him, cradling him, holding him tight. A forehead pressed against his. Small murmurs that sound like a plea, a beg, a desperate prayer. His eyes open slowly, and the murmurs fade into happy laughing, the sound of his name. “Fenris,” Hawke says, “you’re safe, I have you.” The last thing he remembers is the feel of cold metal pushing into chest. His hand searches, but finds no wound. He struggles to sit up. Hawke is wiping away tears, giving him a shaking smile. She keeps one hand tightly in his, the other pressed against a wound in her belly that bleeds.

He doesn’t realize it at first, what she has done. He knows she’s always been bad at healing. It’s a laugh, a joke, giving Anders a grateful hug as he mends what she cannot. He believes, at first, that seeing him injured so is what gave her the strength to heal his wounds. His heart swells at the thought of it, knowing she would do whatever it took to keep him safe. He would do the same for her.

She does not heal her own wound. Instead she goes to Darktown, to Anders, a dark look on her face and a hand on his shoulder. She whispers something to Anders and his face goes pale. “Have you told him?” He asks, glancing over to where Fenris waits some distance away.

“How can I?” she says.

He doesn’t realize it at first. She wakes in cold sweat, clutching a hand to her chest as she fights to breathe. Whatever nightmares plague her, she will not tell him what they are about. The wound in her belly never seems to heal quite right. She will stop in some mundane activity, press a hand against her side. She reaches for Anders, and his mouth thins in that grim line Fenris is beginning to see over and over again.

He should have realized it sooner. It’s not until she stops in the middle of a battle to press hands against her ears, an angry snarl on her face, and a shout of “stop talking to me!” He finds her after, stalks towards her.

“When?” He demands.

“When what?” She asks.

“When did you start using blood magic?” Her eyes go wide, her face white. She casts her glance to the ground, her guilt plain. The nightmares that grow worse. The wounds that won’t heal. The demons that speak ever louder. He’s seen it many times before, in Magister after Magister. He should have realized it sooner. He thought she was different.

* * *

**If one of them were to come back after a long time, who would come to who? Would it go well? Would the other person take them back? (FenHawke)**

There’s been only one letter. The first, left upon her pillow. Hawke’s neat script which faltered into scratches, the clearest sign of struggle with the words she chose. _I’m sorry Fenris. I’ll be back soon Fenris. I love you Fenris._ It was not hard to guess where she had gone. When he arrives at Skyhold, they tell him that Hawke is gone, along with the Inquisitor, to fight Wardens in the Western Approach. He has not come this far to simply turn around. Instead, he waits.

There’s a single horn blast, signifying their return days later. Soldiers trickle in, faces worn and armor battle scared. He watches them all pass in the courtyard, one by one. She is one of the last. By the side of Varric, looking paler and thinner than when he saw her last. He cannot stop his feet from moving. She sees him marching towards her and rocks to a standstill. “You damned idiot!” He shouts from steps away. “Without a word! A note! A note, Hawke!” He’s still yelling as he gets closer. “Do you know how worried I was? What I thought might have happened to you?” He closes the distance between them.

“Do not leave me again,” he scolds her, hands on her face, surging forward for a desperate kiss. Too stunned to react, too surprised, it takes her a moment to return the kiss, to wrap her arms around his waist. She clings desperately to him, a thirst she cannot quench, a hunger that will not subside.

“I missed you too,” she says against his mouth, “I missed you so much.”

* * *

**Who’s more likely to protect the other? (FenHawke)**

_You know they’d both look out for each other like crazy_  

He’s always at her back. He stays close to her in battle, by her side, a sharp eye towards any that dare approach her. No matter how bad the fight, how outnumbered they are, no matter how fearful the enemy, she always feels safest knowing he is nearby.

\- He can feel her magic wash over him, a blanket of protection that heals any hurt. Spells that fling enemies up, slam them down and hold them still for him to move in.

\- He hears her laughter as she flits by him, daggers glinting in the sunlight, kicking a bandit to the ground. A swift cut soon follows and then she is onto the next.

\- She watches what he cannot, an arrow burying itself into the skull of the figure that lurks behind him. He knows she always has an eye on him, guarding him against all.

\- She roars as she moves forward, in sync with him, swords moving in motion together. No words are needed to direct each other, all it takes is one glance, a smile, to know what the other is thinking.

* * *

 

**If one of them gets injured, who worries more? (FenHawke)**

He sits quietly by her side, his hands clenched in fists over his knees. One leg is bouncing up and down, unable to still, unable to stop. She sleeps soundly in the bed, on her side, hands up by her face. Her breathing is even, her sleep is calm. Anders has already told him that she will be fine. He rubs a hand over his face, leans over closer to her. She doesn’t stir when he brushes hair back from her face. She doesn’t stir when he gently reaches for one of her hands, holds it in his. “I will be faster,” he promises, “I will protect you.”

* * *

**Who comforts who after a bad dream/event? (FenHawke)**

She was always the one to wake him. Her smiling face above him, holding him as he comes back to himself. She murmurs through his nightmares, the memories he cannot escape. She washes away the feeling of panic, of pain, with soft word and gentle touch. By her side, the nightmares eased. The memories faded. They made new ones together, of laughter and smiles, books read by firelight. When she comes back from Skyhold, things are different.

It is he who is shaking her awake. It is she who comes to with a gasp, clutching at his arms, eyes wide and searching. Hands on his face, asking him if he’s real. “It’s me, Hawke, it’s me,” he tells her as she shakes in his arms, unable to fall back asleep. The Fade holds too much now, it having peered inside her, laid bare all of her fears. He whispers words she once told him, kissing the crown of her head.

“I’m here. I love you. You’re safe,” he says.

* * *

**Who has more dreams/nightmares about the other? (DoriVellan)**

There’s pain in something that no longer exists. It aches in fingers that no longer move, a hand that can no longer hold, in an arm brutally cut short. He’ll reach for things without thinking, stump moving uselessly. How many times has he reached to sign something with a phantom limb? His writing is now crude, childlike as he attempts to re-learn the skill with his other hand. In his dreams, he still has his arm. In his dreams, he can hold both hands before him – unmarred, unmarked – and feel them both as if he were awake. In his dreams, he can hold Dorian the way he wants to.

Arms wrapped around him, hands splayed on his back. Feeling every ridge of his spine, every bit of muscle as he moves. The feel of Dorian smiling against his cheek, kisses that follow the lines of his _vallaslin_. His voice in his ear, _I simply adore you amatus._ It’s an echo, far too distant. As always, he wakes alone in a bed much too large, much too empty. Reaching out with nonexistent fingers, knowing how cold the bed will be on the other side.

He forces himself to sit up, reaching for the locket on the bedside table. It’s late, he shouldn’t… He frowns, presses it against his forehead as he draws his knees to his chest. Dorian is busy, Dorian will be tired, Dorian needs his rest, Dorian has no time for him. It hurts, more than he thought it would. More than the arm. His absence is like something has been ripped from inside of him, torn and mauled, taken away from him.

He holds the locket by his mouth. He speaks in only a whisper. “Dorian. _Vhenan_. I miss you.” He squeezes the locket tight in trembling hand, clenched teeth and furrowed brow. He doesn’t expect an answer.

“ _Amatus_. I was just dreaming of you.”


	112. Beast (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Beauty and the Beast AU"  
> (Yes, I am going to be making this one into a larger fic ;) haha)

He should have stayed on the path. He pulls the cloak tighter around his shoulders, the only protection he has from the bitter wind. Cold still bites on his face, sinks into skin and bone. His breath fogs in the night air, and he can only focus on putting one foot in front of the other. The moon is full and heavy overhead, casting blue light on all the snow below. His feet no longer feel the cold, far past that feeling. One foot, the next step, must keep going. He shudders with relief when he sees the gate. A gate means an estate, property, warmth and shelter.

He moves around the edges of it, until he finds a broken bar, slips inside. The branches of trees long bare cast shadow upon white, like fingers darkly outstretched towards him. A courtyard, he thinks, this must be the courtyard. He can see a mansion in the distance, and before that… it nearly takes his breath away. In the middle of this garden sits a circle of vines. Upon them, weaved into a wall of wooden lace, are perfectly plump roses.

Deliciously red, healthy despite the winter that has descended. He reaches out towards them, feels the soft satin of the petals upon his fingertips. He finds the stem, breaks one off. A thorn pricks his thumb, a drop of blood staining the snow. He holds the rose in one hand, puts his thumb in his mouth and frowns as he tastes iron. A shadow passes from mansion over moon, and he turns too late to look. Talons sink into his shoulders as he goes tumbling downwards, a heavy weight upon him. “Thief!” Feathers and snow, his vision blurry. “Trespasser!”

He opens his eyes to see glowing ones in return, a mouth full of sharpened teeth. A mass of darkness and spitting anger with wings, not arms, wild hair filled with feathers, she’s still shouting. “You will pay for what you have stolen! What you have broken!” She hops backwards as she stands at full height, towering over him, the moon behind her. He’s been caught by a beast, one with freckles on her cheeks.


	113. Only You (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I want you. Only you. It’s always been you – Fenris x Hawke"

She stops, in the middle of the fight. Daggers that were once raised now fall to her sides. Her stance shifts and changes. From feet wide to together and narrow, from back hunched to straight and stiff. Where once a grimace had been, a sign of the effort of the fight, now only blank neutrality sits. The desire demon stalks towards her, fingers like talons at the side of Hawke’s face. Vibrant blue eyes turn dull and grey, caught in the demons grasp. The demon twists, turns, and wraps arms around Hawke as it stands behind her. She puts a cutting talon at Hawke’s neck.

“Enough,” one voice like three thousand, layer over layer, the demons single word cuts through the cacophony of battle. The shades under its command ripple and move, take their place beside their master. Anders is instantly moving forward, and it’s Aveline’s hand on his shoulder which stops him. “Move one step and I will kill her.” The desire demon smirks as it says it, draws its tongue along Hawke’s cheek. Fenris roots his feet to the ground.

“Hawke.” Those blank eyes slowly turn to him. The daggers are still held tightly in her hands. If he could just… “Hawke,” Fenris says, reaching out a hand towards her.

“I will take this body for myself,” the demon says, “all it need do is agree.”

“Hawke,” Fenris says again, urgency in his voice. The demon is whispering in Hawke’s ear, tendrils of blood from the demons talons swirling around Hawke’s head. Clouding her judgment, twisting things in her mind. “Come to me.”

“He left you,” the demon is whispering, “He doesn’t want you. You’ll only ever be alone.” There’s a stitch that crosses Hawke’s eyebrows. Anders takes a step forward, and the demon turns them to face him. It presses the claw into Hawke’s neck, brings forth blood. “These fools tempt your death. Say yes to me, my dearest one, and you will be safe. I will keep you warm. I will never leave you. I’ll love you always.”

“I want you,” Fenris barks out. Attention turns from Anders, back to him. “Only you.” His hand is still outstretched towards her, a red ribbon tied around his wrist. “It’s always been you.” The movement is slight, barely noticeable. The demon certainly doesn’t see it. The dagger turns, and Hawke stabs backwards. The rest are in motion as the demon staggers away, holding its side and screeching its fury. Through shade and magic, Fenris’s sword cuts.

He takes her face in his hands, looks at the vibrant blue that stares back. Anders is close beside her, sealing the cut on her neck, removing any trace of blood magic. “Are you alright?” Fenris asks. She closes her eyes, daggers falling to the ground. Her arms wrap around him, her head in the crook of his neck.

“Sorry, I know you don’t – sorry. Just one moment. Please,” she’s babbling. He wraps his arms around her, holds her tight. She whimpers when he presses a kiss to the crown of her head. They stay there for one moment, and a moment more, and another.


	114. Why Haven't (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Fenris to Hawke – Why haven’t you kissed me yet? 80's AU"

The lights shine on her, as they are meant to. She moves to the beat of the music, stamping bare feet against the stage as she rocks back and forth, shaking her hips. Black hair swirls, moves with her. There’s a grin on her face as she sings, bright red gracing her lips. She closes her eyes as she runs a hand through her hair, hitting that note as only she can. The crowd is screaming her name, trying to reach past the barrier towards her. He watches as only he can, from the side of the stage, a notebook in his hands.

After the show is finished, she’s laughing into Isabela’s arms, the two of them collapsing together onto the couch of the hotel. Merrill still has the jitters, and she’s flitting to and fro, the bass still in her hands. Aveline makes a beeline for the kitchen, takes out the alcohol and downs shot after shot. Fenris takes a seat opposite the couch. Hawke has her head in Isabela’s lap, her legs draped over the end of the couch. “They loved the new song,” Hawke tells him excitedly, “I told you they would.”

“So you did,” Fenris says with a small smile. As the night ebbs on, positions shift and change. They each take their turn in the small shower. They could only afford one room. Aveline is snoring like a stone on the middle of the bed, Isabela and Merrill curled up on either side of her. Only Hawke remains a constant, occupying that couch, hair still wet from her shower.

She stands slowly, makes her way towards him. “You always write us the best songs,” she tells him. A knee on either side of his, she sinks down as she straddles him, hands on his shoulder. His hands slowly make their way to her waist. “You’re the reason we’re getting popular. I feel like I should reward you somehow.”

He looks up at her, at the remnants of lipstick that remain. “So why haven’t you kissed me yet?” He says. There’s a smile at the corners of her mouth. She closes her eyes as she leans down, a hand winding in his hair. Her body presses against his, and she eases herself into him. Her mouth is warm, her tongue wet and inviting. She’s electric both on stage and here in his arms, and he feels himself being swept into her current.

She’s pulling at him, legs squeezing around his, hand bruising on his shoulder. Her kiss is forceful, and they breathe each other in. Fenris sits up even more, an arm around her waist, and she pulls him tumbling backwards. They land on the floor, she beneath him, and he runs a hand along her leg, down her thigh. His hips grind against hers as her legs lock around his waist, hands fisting into his shirt. She groans into his mouth, heel pressing against his ass.

They break away when Aveline gives a particularly loud snort. There’s a strand of spit between them that breaks when Fenris raises his head. They’re both breathing heavy, so caught up in the moment. She’s reaching up, hands on his face, brushing thumbs over his cheeks. She smiles, laughs as quietly as she can. His head falls to her chest as he laughs with her.


	115. With A Blush (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I found you “With a blush on your cheeks” Trevelyan x Cullen"

He gives her a flower. She holds in her hands as he speaks. One of his hands is behind his back, but the other is pointing at the petals. He’s explaining something to her, his eyes on the flower. Her eyes are on him, and there’s a blush on her cheeks. He looks up and her eyes quickly move towards the flower. She’s saying something back to him, and a smile slowly graces his lips. Both hands are now clasped behind his back.

He turns, still smiling, walking away from her. “Good day Commander,” Solas says with a polite nod as he passes. Cullen can only grunt in return. He grips the board in his hands, the parchment crumbling under tight fingertips. He makes his way towards her, she still looking at the flower in her hands.

“Inquisitor.” Trevelyan looks up at his words, startled out of her reverie, and she suddenly hides the flower behind her back. If he were not wearing gloves, she might have seen how white his knuckles were. If he were not a coward, he’s call her by her name and not her title.

“Cullen! Good to see you! Something I can help you with?” She rises on toes and back down to her feet, rocking back and forth while she bites her bottom lip. She’s trying to hide the smile, banish it away, but still it persists.

“Oh… Ah, the meeting has already begun and –”

“The meeting! Is Josie awfully mad? She’s mad isn’t she?” Trevelyan is saying as she hurries past Cullen, him following after her, as she makes her way towards the war room. The flower is twirling in her hands, and she is careful to protect it as she weaves through the crowd of the great hall. It sits in her breast pocket during the meeting. It’s a brilliant thing of red and blue. It suits her.

She’s serious during the meeting, listening to each of her advisors in turn. She crosses her arms, bites the end of her thumb as she thinks. A frown crosses her brow as she focuses on moving pieces around the map, like pieces over a chessboard. Those games mean more to him than she thinks. It’s the only time he sees her without distraction, without others nearby.

When the meeting finishes, she’s rushing to the library, finds Solas at the stairs. Cullen can only watch them go. One day. One day he’d give her reason to smile. One day she’d blush for him.


	116. The Collar (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "oh hell yeah!! i'd love something victorian-era ish, like shadow on the run with that whole dark gothic vibe? w/ rivalry fenhawke (and trans fenris) prompt line maybe um.... "you know nothing, marian hawke," ? i'm very into wall slamming but i'd literally be happy with anything you wrote askdgjlagjs"

The collar is too tight. He tugs at it, this starched white thing, and shifts from foot to foot. The tie is like a noose which completes the strangle. Hawke is pulling at the vest, biting her bottom lip, tilting her head from side to side as she evaluates. He pulls at the collar again, and again, until she finally wraps a hand around his wrist. “Don’t you like it?” She asks. The vest is green – to match your eyes – chosen by her hands. The shoes, the pants, the damnable collar. All of it is hers. He’s dressed in resplendent wealth and it’s not…

“I do,” he says as he frees himself from her grasp. “I just do not think it is… proper for you to buy such things for me.”

“Why not?” She says as she cocks her head. “I like buying things for you.” A small frown knits its way into Fenris’s brows. He’s too used to rough and tumble things, with patches and holes, well-worn and suiting his station. He is no Lord, but she is a Lady. He balks when she suddenly pinches his cheeks. Angry, indignant, he steps away from her. Her hands drop to her hips and she scolds him like a child. “I know what you’re thinking, and you stop that right now.”

“You don’t know anything, _Marian_ ,” he mutters in reply. He only ever uses her name to annoy her. Sure enough, he sees the tick at the corner of her mouth.

“Really? I do know you are the most ridiculous man I have ever met,” she states it like a fact. “Oh yes,” he’s saying as he closes the distance between them, “because you are always so much better.” She has to stand on her toes to get anywhere close to his face. She loses her balance, grabs hold of his shoulders. She swings them around, and he slams against the wall with a slight oof.

“You know I don’t think I’m better than you,” Hawke says. She lets go of his shoulders with a sigh, brushes down the front of her dress.

“You might think that, but the others at this party will not. I do not belong at these balls, I stand out far too much,” he’s biting out the words. She shakes her head and goes to her knees in front of him. “Hawke what are you doi-”

“Shutting you up,” she says, fierce blue eyes looking upwards as she undoes the buttons of his trousers. His palms slap against the wall at her mouth opening wide, breathing warm air over him through his underthings. She pulls his hips away from the wall to pull that barrier down, closes her eyes as she presses her tongue against his clit. A hand slowly leaves the wall, and he lightly touches her hair.

Her eyes spring open once again, find his and he’s struck by electricity that travels down his spine. He groans as his hips buck, grinding against her mouth. He hates that he can feel her grin with victory. He loves her still, anyway.


	117. Don't Look (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @jawsandbones: “don't look at my boner when we fight.”  
> @justbooker: LOLOLOL they would omg. Or like, Hawke would say that. And Fenris would deliberately look down. Lick his lips or something. And Hawke is like OMG and while he's freaking out BAM Fenris takes him down."  
> @jawsandbones: "AHHHHHHH. YES."

It’s just a sparring session – that’s all it is. Practice, after a long time spent grounded. Anders’s orders, after taking a blade to the shoulder. He’d have asked Aveline, but he didn’t feel like being part of the guard today. He’d ask Isabela, but he had a feeling she wouldn’t quite take as serious as he’d like. Cicadas hum in the bushes of the estate courtyard, birds chirping high up in trees and upon the roof. Fenris brushes snowy locks out of his eyes as he takes the simple staff Hawke has offered. He was the only choice, really.

The sun beats down heavy and unrelenting, too warm for a shirt, really. That’s the excuse Hawke gives as he pulls it off of him, tosses it to the side. He rests the staff on his shoulders, takes a lazy stance. He’s in old, loose fitting trousers, and his feet are bare. He tries not to smile at Fenris’s appreciative glances at his chest, his arms, and exposed muscles. It was too warm for a shirt, really. Hawke certainly wasn’t hunting for those gazes. Hawke almost swallows his tongue when Fenris lets the staff rest easy in his hands as he tugs off his own shirt.

His back towards Hawke as he pulls it off, throws it over to the side with Hawke’s. He looks over his shoulder at Hawke, gives him a small smile. Hawke’s gaze follows the line of Fenris’s spine, the way the sun licks against olive skin. In the years since their one night together, that red ribbon around Fenris’s wrist has kept Hawke calm and kept him hopeful. Keeps him knowing that the stretching Fenris is doing is not simply just for their session.

He takes a practiced stance, motions at Hawke. “Are you ready?” Hawke keeps that staff on his shoulders, hands resting easy on it while Fenris twirls his with flourish and ease. He loves it when Fenris gets cocky like this. Assured in everything he does, a grin teasing the edge of his lips, flirtatious and confident. The years have not softened the way Hawke feels, and loves him just as much as the night he left. More, even.

Fenris strikes first, a straightforward thrust, easily countered. Clack. Clack. Clack. The ache in his shoulder is still there, but he barely feels it watching Fenris move, sweat on his brow and his back, moving swiftly and gracefully. Moving in a way that reminds Hawke of when he had him, completely and fully, gasping in his arms. Hawke steps back after Fenris gives him a gentle tap on the bare bones of his hip. “You’re distracted,” he says.

“You’re distracting,” Hawke tells him. That grin again, just there, that makes Hawke beam. “You should know you do… things. To me.” Another gulp when Fenris’s eyes drop from Hawke’s face to his chest, down his belly, to where that trail leads down into his pants. If he wasn’t already hard before, he certainly is now. Especially when Fenris looks back up at him, fierce eye-contact, and licks his lips. Hawke feels his face heat instantly, and his bones are suddenly water.

That’s when Fenris moves, faster than he has the entire session, stick between Hawke’s legs, bowling him over. He’s quick to straddling him after knocking the stick out of Hawke’s hands, his own pressed against Hawke’s throat. Fenris is laughing, happy and victorious, his hair around him like a bright halo as he looks at Hawke. “I’ve won,” he says.

“You cheated,” Hawke teases.

“Oh? How so?”

“By being you,” Hawke says. He allows Fenris one more breath of laughter before he moves. An arm around Fenris’s waist, feet pushing off the ground, moving before Fenris has time to react. He pins Fenris’s wrists beneath his hands, his body weight pressing down against him, Fenris’s legs wrapped around his waist. Hawke beams triumphantly at Fenris’s look of surprise, which melts into a smile. They’re both breathing heavily, and Hawke’s face is mere inches away from Fenris’s.

They look at each other, so close, and the laughter is slowly fading away. The glance becomes more serious, Fenris’s eyes flicking to his lips. Hawke licks them instinctively. He feels Fenris’s fingers move underneath his grasp, his hips rolling against his as he grows more comfortable. Hawke just needs to lean down a little further, a little further and Fenris is closing his eyes, and… and Hawke rolls away with renewed laughter. It covers the blush of his cheeks, the hammering in his chest.

“Come on,” he says as he moves to his feet, reaching out his hand for Fenris to take. “We’ve got a lot of practice to do still.”


	118. Moving On (Unrequited Fenris x F!Hawke, Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Think about how a fenris who was too late would feel though, if hawke moves on? I made myself sad :/"

He dreams of only one thing. He dreams of only her. She lies before the fire, light flickering over bare skin, licks of warmth over every curve. Her head turns slightly, stray wisps of black hair moving over her back. One by one, lines of ink racing towards each other. He’s caught by kind blue eyes, and the barest hint of a smile. Then she is turning again, looking back towards the fire, away from him. He moves from the bed, goes to join her. Under his touch, she crumbles into ash.

His eyes open slowly, to an overcast sky. Grey cloud clashes against grey cloud and he can already taste the rain in the air. It’s a chore to drag his feet from the bed, a struggle to find the energy to rise. He sits at the edge of his bed, his face in his hands. He rubs at the sleep that still invades his eyes, tries to push the tired ache from his bones. On such a grim day such as this, even his skin seems to be aflame. Pain prickles from his markings, a reminder he still draws breath. Fenris pushes himself to stand, forces himself to move.

He looks at the yet unanswered letter upon his desk. All it would take was one simple word from him, a few bits of coin. Then… then he might have answers. Then he’d have a sister to help him retrace steps long forgotten. Later – he’d send it later. For now, he washes and dresses, straps the sword to his back. They’re already waiting for him, at some grungy corner in Lowtown.

Hawke looks over her shoulder to see him and he’s caught by kind blue eyes, and the barest hint of a smile. Then she is turning again, looking back towards the others, away from him. He closes the distance between them. He clenches his hands into fists, stands stiffly by her side.

Some gang has chosen to make their nest in Darktown. They’ve chosen their location poorly. Too near too Anders’s clinic, they’ve caught too much of Hawke’s attention. Aveline and Fenris lead the charge. Anders’s spells protect them both. Hawke is picking off stragglers with her bow. They make it seem so easy. No gang will settle there for quite some time. Rain begins to fall. Grey turns darker, day becomes seeming night. Rain washes the blood away into the gutters.

They’re making their way back to Hightown, walking quickly, intending to seek shelter. Fenris and Aveline are walking ahead, and he can hear Hawke and Anders speaking behind him. The rain turns from something light into something fierce, lightning cracking across the sky. Thunder booms in the darkness, swallows Hawke’s laughter. It’s a cacophony of noise, heavy drops splattering against the cobble beneath his feet, against building and canvas. Fenris looks over his shoulder as another arc of lightning splits the darkness. In this makeshift light, he sees Hawke’s face in Anders’s hands. He sees her eyes closed, smiling even as he kisses her.

He stops when he knows he shouldn’t. Time seems to slow for him. Every last noise is washed away as much as the blood. It’s all static silence as he watches. Her arms are winding around Anders, clinging to him just as raindrops cling to her eyelashes. There’s a blush underneath her freckles, a warmth undampened by the rain. His thumbs are moving lovingly across her cheekbones as her mouth opens even more to him. There’s a ferocity in the passion of the kiss, electric as much as the storm.

Thunder claps. The rain falls. Time comes back to itself, noise crashing in Fenris’s eardrums. He turns and he runs.

Feet pound heavy against the ground as he goes. The streets have long since emptied, and he moves without thought, only on instinct. He runs until his lungs burn, until he can close the door to his mansion, leave all the noise outside. His legs shake as the sword falls to the floor. His armor soon follows. Water pools around him as he drags himself up the stairs.

He half falls in front of the fire. His teeth click together, blinding cold that vibrates through every pore. He doesn’t feel the flames. Without looking down, he pulls the knot of the ribbon around his wrist free. Red joins red. He watches as it burns, crumbles into ash.


	119. To Stay (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “If you had asked me to stay, I would’ve.”

Her hand fits perfectly in his. Fingertips trace the lines on his palm, all the little cracks and callouses. Her hands are rough and worn from years of wielding a staff, and all those years before spent with knees in the dirt. They’re still the softest things he’s ever known. He presses a kiss to her knuckles. She smiles as she stands, bed lighter with the sudden loss, and her hand slips from his. He wants to tell her not to go. The sun shines through the cracks in his room, and the birds are beginning to sing. He wants to tell her to stay with him, spend the day in that bed.

He rolls over to lie on his stomach, hugging the pillow beneath him. He watches as she dresses, still hazy from sleep, covering pale skin with robe and armor. A look she’s branded all her own, a look that marks her as Champion. She runs a hand through messy dark locks, tucks stray strands behind her ear. She puts one knee on the bed as she leans over, a hand on Fenris’s back. She presses a kiss to his temple, rubs a fond finger against his cheek. He closes his eyes after she leaves, falls back asleep, dreams of her.

He wakes a few hours later, when the sun has settled, when he can hear the noise of Hightown going about its business. He finds drink, fresh bread, in the kitchen. The mansion has become more livable now that Hawke has come to stay more often. The floors are washed, there are curtains over the windows. Cutlery shines with cleanliness, and there isn’t a cobweb in sight. She’s brought him new furniture. No place to put it in the estate, she said, but I just liked it so much. She treats it like it’s an accident, this buying of furniture. She knows he would protest otherwise.

He curls up in a chair, pulls a blanket over his shoulders. He eats the last of the bedroll, opens the book to the page he had marked. It’s more difficult to read without Hawke there. No one to ask what a certain word is, letters he cannot put together. He manages the best he can, but misses her anyway. It’s easy to lose track of a time as he follows word after word, but he cannot miss the sudden loss of light when the sun begins to set. The worry knots in his chest as he rises, begins to light candles.

Sun gives way to moon, hanging heavy in the sky. He takes his sword with him when he leaves. He goes to the Hanged Man first. Perhaps she had been caught up in drinks with the others? He finds the tavern lacking of her laughter, of her grin, of that raven hair. He goes to her estate next. Bodahn tells him that he has not seen her since she left for his mansion, a few days before. He goes to Aveline, working late, hunched over her desk. The two of them rouse the others. It’s Merrill who tells them she wanted to visit Carver at the Gallows.

Templars at the gate bar their way. The hour for visitation has long since passed. Aveline argues hotly with whoever she can find, turning her attentions to the next and the next and the next. Fenris stands quietly next to her at the gate. He stands quietly for he is afraid that if he speaks, he will shout. He is afraid that if he moves, he will fight. He forces himself to stillness, to wait. The Knight-Commander greets them in the morning, a smile on her face.

An intruder. A mage intruder. In the barracks. Cannot be allowed. Aveline demands to see Carver. Meredith tells her he is no longer at the Gallows. Ferried elsewhere during the night, transferred to some other Circle. Meredith gestures at a Templar behind her. His hand is tightly wound around a woman’s arm, dragging her forward. Dressed in the diminutive robes of a Circle Mage. Hair cut and shaved tight against her head. A fiery brand across her forehead. Blue eyes that look at him dully.

Distantly he can hear the others yelling, screaming. Fenris rocks forward when the Templar lets her go. He runs to his Hawke, takes her face in his hands. She does not react to his touch, does not look him in the eye. His hands fall to hers. They used to fit so perfectly in his. Now they do not seem to want to stay. Back to her cheeks, thumbs brushing over the freckles he loves so dearly. His forehead presses against hers, covers the brand. “Why?” He asks through gritted teeth, “Why did you go?”

“If you had asked me to stay, I would have,” she tells him plainly. He wraps her in his arms, holds her tight against him as he shakes.


	120. Late (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goes with [this picture](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/158592885659)

Hawke sighs, rubs his eyes as he closes the door to the estate. He tells himself that it’s his own fault – he offered his help to Aveline in any way she needed. Being the battering ram for recruits was not how he imagined she would call in the favor. His hand wraps around the bannister, tired and aching to the bone as he half pulls himself up the stairs. Each step is a struggle, and he feels the burn in every muscle. Why did he let himself do this? A masochist, he’s a damn masochist, he thinks to himself.

It’s late, far later than he meant to be home. He mourns the lost dinner he would have spent with Fenris and the evening they would have spent wrapped in each other, reading in front of the fire, drinking wine. He’s sure Fenris is sleeping. He turns the knob to their bedroom quietly, opens the door as carefully as he can. There’s candles still lit, and the fire is flickering gently. Fenris rolls over in the bed, the blanket pulled tight around his shoulders.

Fenris sits up, and the blanket slips down a bare shoulder. Long white locks follow suit, and Hawke’s breath is instantly stolen. “You took your time,” Fenris says.

“I know,” he says, pressing the door closed behind him, “I’m sorry.”

“I was waiting for you,” Fenris says as he stretches like a cat, arms reaching upwards, wrapping around the bed pole. Hair falls over half his face as he sits up, the blanket falling even further down. Hawke’s back immediately straightens, his heart leaping into his throat. Every hurt and every ache is swept away as he looks at Fenris. Noticing Hawke’s stare, the grin slowly works its way across Fenris’s face, biting his bottom lip. “Are you going to make me wait any longer?”

Hawke is moving instantly, crawling on the bed, Fenris’s face in his hands as he swallows his lips in a kiss. He reaches for a lock of his hair, snow in his palm, and kisses it gently. “Have I mentioned how much I love your hair this way?” Hawke asks in a low tone.

“Not recently.” Any other words are whisked away by the brush of Hawke’s lips, his fingers tracing the line of his jaw, searching downwards. They linger on his collarbone, warm hands against his ribs and down further still, at Fenris’s hips, drawing him even closer. Fenris chuckles slightly against Hawke’s mouth, the man completely enraptured and lost in his lover.


	121. Tracing (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gift for a friend

Hawke’s hands are so much larger than his own. He presses fingertip against fingertip, softly moving to his palm. Tracing the lines which web, all the little cracks in skin, circling every bump and bone. A smile quirks on his lips when he sees Hawke’s fingers twitch with the feeling, even as he sleeps. His breathing even and calm, eyes closed and peaceful in dreaming. Fenris lies beside him, hand drifting over hand, as the fire begins to ebb down low.

Soft warm light, flickering over the both of them. Fenris traces the line of Hawke’s nose, the worrisome line of his mouth. A thumb drifting over lips, a feel he knows too well and not well enough. He moves through his beard, follows his jaw to the shell of his ears. Through coal colored hair, and back down again. Over shoulder to collarbone, to the well in the middle, broad chest and sturdy ribs, the heart that beats underneath.

He feels it underneath his palm, that steady rhythm, a peaceful song. He closes his eyes, feels the heat that radiates from Hawke. His eyes open again when a hand slips over his own. “What are you doing?” He asks, voice hoarse from sleep, his eyes barely able to remain open. Fenris shakes his head, pulls at the hair on Hawke’s chest. Hawke swats his hand away with a yelp. Fenris falls back into the bed, long white hair splaying out over the pillow.

“You are like a big, hairy bear,” Fenris says.

“And you are a small, handsome elf,” Hawke tells him with a smile. Fenris lets out a huff, crossing his arms, turning his face away from Hawke. It hides the slight shade of red that blossoms on his cheeks. Hawke tells him often - how handsome, how kind, how sweet… He never knows how to respond.

“I am of average size for an elf.” Hawke laughs, rolling over to drape an arm over Fenris’s chest, burying his head into the crook of his neck.

“Tell what you were doing,” Hawke murmurs, pressing a kiss to his neck.

“I was,” Fenris pauses, mulling it over, “memorizing.” Hawke shifts, raising himself up, hands pressing into the mattress. He leans over Fenris, until he finds the eyes that will not meet his own. Even without seeing it properly in the low light, he knows the blush that troubles Fenris’s cheeks.

“Does that mean I get to do the same?” Hawke leans back, moving to kneel at the end of the bed. Fenris doesn’t protest as Hawke pulls down the blanket, simply moving to lean against the headboard, watching as Hawke moves. The first touch is light against his ankle. Fingertips that come to rest against skin, feeling the heat of Hawke’s palm. His thumb moves in slow, affectionate, circles. Hawke smiles up at Fenris as he begins to move.

He keeps his thumb on the line of bone, drifting upwards. He takes care not to trace markings, lyrium chains, and shows his appreciation for all that Fenris is. Hawke glances up from his work often, to see the yes in Fenris’s expression, the way he bites at his bottom lip. He circles around Fenris’s knee, and ever upwards. A hand kneads against his thigh, teasing touches that never quite go where Fenris wants him to. Hawke smiles at Fenris’s intake of breath when his touch get near, then shifts to his hips.

He trails a finger over hipbones, and splays a hand over Fenris’s belly. He appreciates the hard muscle he feels, satisfaction in knowing that it’s not just muscle now – Hawke’s cooking has seen to that. Strong hands over ribs, a squeezing that isn’t tight, until Hawke cups his face in his hands.

Hawke leans forward, brushes lips over Fenris’s. A light kiss but deepening still, Fenris is lost when Hawke pulls away. Eyes half-lidded, a hand on Hawke’s arm. More than his human heat, more than the fire, there’s a burning of warmth in Hawke’s eyes - a fondness that Fenris melts underneath. “I know all of you,” Hawke says as he tucks a lock of hair behind pointed ears, “I love every inch.”


	122. Don't Leave (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “Please… don’t leave.” + “I tried my best to not feel anything for you. Guess what? I failed.”

There’s dust on the drawers. The curtains are drawn, the room dark. She lights no candle and the door is closed behind her. Only a small strip of light seeps through, a single crack. She runs a finger along the drawer, looks at it for a moment. A frown. A fist. Her hand drops back to her side as she stands at the end of the bed. The pillows are neat, the blankets tucked. Untouched and unsullied. She forces herself to walk, to sit at the edge of the bed, to roll completely onto it. It creaks underneath her weight, blankets pulled and pillows scattered.

She lies on her stomach and presses her face against the distance smell of orange peels and cinnamon. She can almost see Leandra lying in bed, a book on her lap, the steaming cup of tea on her bedside. Hawke squeezes her eyes closed, sighs deeply. That crack of light moves and reaches, fills the room as the door is pushed open. “I – you did not come to the Hanged Man. I knew it was…” A year. It’s been exactly a year since Leandra died.

She faces away from the door and can see the shadows on the wall shift as he sways in the doorway, decides to enter. She raises herself on elbows, rolls over on the bed. In the empty space she has created, she pats her hand down. He takes her invitation awkwardly, lying stiffly, hands linked over his stomach and eyes focused on the ceiling. She mirrors his pose, shoulder touching shoulder. “I was concerned,” he says, head turning slightly to look at her. “Are you alright?”

Hawke raises her hands to press palms against closed eyes, hard enough to see stars. “Of course you’d remember,” she says. “Of course it’s you.” Fenris doesn’t say anything to that. She shifts, pushes herself up to sit. She twists, kneeling on the bed, a hand on either side of his head. He looks up at her calmly, green meeting blue, patiently waiting for her, as always. She longs to reach out, to feel the warmth of his cheeks against her fingertips, to see his eyes close at her touch, to know that she… that she could make him happy.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” she says, turning away from him, legs slipping off the bed. Fingers curl into blankets, the edge of the mattress. “I just – I tried Fenris. I tried not to…” she presses a hand against her chest. She can feel him moving, rising to stand. His hand wraps around the bedpost. “I love you.” She looks over her shoulder, at his back, where he struggles to stay.

“I heard from Varric that you were looking into things outside the city. He wouldn’t tell me what. I don’t need to know, I’m not going to pry. I just – don’t leave Kirkwall. Please… don’t leave.” _Don’t leave me_.

The silence aches. She can feel her heart beat against her skull, a desperate worry, a fearful loss. “I won’t,” he says at last. “I’m sorry Hawke.” She can’t see the frown, the way he presses a hand against his forehead. The way he fights with himself, the words on his tongue. All she sees is him quickly leaving, not looking at her, heavy steps down the stairs. He pauses at the bottom.

“Come to the Hanged Man,” a raised voice just enough to carry to her. It’s a good idea as any. Better to wallow in drink than to wallow alone.


	123. No Ending (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“I didn’t want it to end, I just thought you’d be better off without me.” (Fenhawk, fenhawk, fenhawk!)"

She comes to him when he wants no one, wearing a plain tunic and patched leggings, eyes red but blue bright. She smiles when she brushes hair from his eyes, bends down to plant a kiss in the clearing she has created. He sits on the bench, does not rise. He keeps his eyes lowered, away from her, focusing on the nervous way her feet shift, unsure of whether to stay or run. She kneels before him, finger on the chin, forcing his gaze to hers. “Fenris, I have something for you,” she says.

Her hands are warm on his skin, and he is limp and pliable in her hands. She takes his arm, holds his wrist, and ties a ribbon around it. Red upon red, tucking in the knot, pinning it together with a family crest. Her family crest. “We Hawkes,” she says, “bestow a favor on those we love.” He squeezes his eyes closed. She shouldn’t – he wasn’t – he didn’t… _Forgive me_ , and it’s given. _Hate me_ , and she won’t. _Forget me_ , and she can’t.

Year passes upon year and she still looks upon him softly, gentle in her gaze and in her voice, tender in her touch. It aches as much as it did that night, a clamp around his chest, squeezing rib and lung. He never takes the red from his wrist, and it marks the truth he cannot speak. He loves her still, but knows she deserves better. It’s Anders who says it. A simple comment outside the Hanged Man. “You wear that, and she’s never going to move on.”

The anger brews, boils, bubbles in his chest, a sneering “you know nothing about it,” but understands that he is right. Fenris catches the way the line of her shoulders fall, the way the smile slowly fades, the sad blue when she sees the favor is no longer tied around his wrist the next day. He pretends not to notice. He holds himself still as to not to run to her, to tell her that it is for her own sake, and that she deserves better than a broken man can give.

He asks her to come with her. He asks her to help find the family he might once have known. Varania. A sister. She doesn’t hesitate in her answer. Moving forward, her hand in his, giving it a tight squeeze. “We’ll go as soon as you’re ready,” she says. He doesn’t want to let go. He wishes he were still holding her hand when Varania calls him Leto. He wishes he were still holding her hand when Danarius walks down the stairs. He wishes he were still holding her hand when the magic courses through markings, drags him to his knees.

A twist, a turn, Danarius driving the blade of his staff through his belly. Triumph in the Magister’s eyes, Hawke’s anguished cry. She leaves all her magic behind as she throws herself at Danarius, drawing the small knife from her belt. A knee into his gut, pushing him down to the floor. Quick screaming thrusts as metal meets soft flesh, knife sinking itself into Danarius’s neck, red pooling around him. She scrambles on hands and knees to Fenris’s side, pulls him into her lap.

“Fenris,” she says, her hand pressing tightly against the hole in his belly, “Hold on. Anders will be here soon.” She cradles him tightly, fingers biting into his arm. He can only stare up at her as she looks at the wound, gritting her teeth, eyes wide. A strand of hair makes its way across her forehead, settles over her face. Freckles like stars against clear skies, red lips he’s had the privilege of touching. She’s so beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Her gaze moves from the red seeping around her fingers to him, to the way he smiles at her. “I kept your favor.”

“Don’t talk,” she says, “You need to-”

“I never wanted it to end,” he tells her. “I thought you’d be better off without me.” Her brows knit, her chin shakes.

“You daft, foolish, idiot, stupid fool of a man,” she says as she presses her forehead against his. “Don’t you know we’re better when we’re together?”


	124. Seducing (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“Are you trying to seduce me?” for Fen x MHawke, pleeeeease?"

“What are you doing?” Fenris asks with his arms crossed and his eyebrows raised. Hawke has hands at the straps of his armor, shedding heavy metal, letting it sink into the dirt. He gives a reckless grin as he stretches, one hand moving towards the branches of the tree.

“There’s an apple up there. A perfect looking one. You like apples.” His foot finds purchase in a knot, and he pushes himself upwards. His tunic hangs loose, the sleeves ripped off, Hawke winking down at Fenris as he flexes more than necessary to reach the next branch.

“Are you trying to seduce me?” Fenris asks with the slightest of smiles curling at the edges of his lips.

“Is it working?” Hawke asks with a childish grin.

“I will keep you informed,” Fenris says. He covers the smirk with his hand, watches as Hawke deftly climbs from branch to branch. The branches thin out, no longer steady under Hawke’s weight. Tongue between teeth, reaching as far as he can. Fingertips touch the smooth surface of an apple before Hawke hears the cracking sound. His stomach drops and there’s suddenly nothing solid under his feet. _Great_ , is all he has time to think.

He groans as he lies on grass and dirt, trying to pretend like he doesn’t hear Fenris roaring with laughter. The elf is doubled over, hands around his belly, laughter carefree and delighted. “Don’t – don’t fucking laugh,” Hawke says, trying to stop his own chuckles as he pushes himself up from the ground. He sits up, rubbing his brow, grinning as he watches Fenris collapse to his knees.

“I-I’m sorry – are you – are you alright?” He’s gasping in air, a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, wiping tears from his eyes. With a flourish, he presents the apple.

“For you,” Hawke says. For some reason, that makes Fenris laugh even harder. Arms around his neck, head on Hawke’s shoulder, his entire body shakes with it. They lie back in the grass together, breathless and giddy. Fenris claims his prize, takes a bite. Hawke wraps a hand around his wrist, tugs his hand towards him so that he too may take a bite.

Fenris chuckles under his breath, leans over to kiss him. “If you wanted a taste, you only had to ask,” he says slyly. The grin bursts across Hawke’s face as he rolls over Fenris, trapping him beneath him, smothering him in kiss after kiss.


	125. Hiding (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“You hide it in jokes and sarcasm, but I can see how broken you are.” + “I tried my best to not feel anything for you. Guess what? I failed.”"

She climbs over rock, walks on the sky. The breeze is warm, but there’s still a cold chill in her bones. She’s walked for days. She’s walked for years. Dark circles hang under her eyes and she’s not quite sure when the last time she slept was. She’s not tired. She’s too exhausted to go on. She keeps walking. There’s no end to it. She’s a curiosity to all the hidden things she passes. She’s acquired followers, watchful eyes. Most are peaceful. Some want to take. She won’t let them.

She sits down on some broken statue, resting elbows on knees and her face in her hands. She doesn’t know the direction she’s headed towards. She doesn’t think it matters. “Where are you going?” The spirit is some disembodied thing, glowing orange and voice echoing over the vast emptiness of the Fade. Hawke lifts her head to look at it, this inquisitive beast. Few spirits ever speak to her. The only voices she’s heard for the past long while are those of demons.

“Home,” she says.

“Where is that?” The spirit asks.

“Not here,” she laughs. The spirit doesn’t laugh with her.

“You’re hurt,” it says. “Why are you laughing?”

“Better than the alternative,” she says.

“What is the alternative?” Hawke locks her jaw tight, lips thinning, a frown forming. She pushes herself up from the statue, continues to walk. The spirit follows at her back. The alternative is to give up. To lie down. To listen to the demons. To take their offer. Or, to simply die. “I want to help,” the spirit says. Hawke’s steps slow. She looks over her shoulder, regards the spirit with disdain.

“Can you open a rift to the waking world?”

“I cannot,” the spirit says. Hawke shakes her head, keeps walking. She doesn’t see the spirit hold its arms to itself, see its shape change. No longer orange but dull grey, eyes that shine green far too brightly. A statue with glowing eyes. A statue that speaks. “Does this help?” Hawke is ready with a mocking answer as she turns to face the spirit. She’s lost in silence instead.

There are no colors to this Fenris. Skin is a stony grey, his hair the same. She reaches forward, cupping his face in her hands. Cold to the touch. Her hands tremble. “This is cruel,” Hawke chokes out the words in a whisper. This Fenris reaches towards her, pulls her close, and swallows her in a hug. Hawke can only stand against him, stiff and stone herself, head in the crook of his neck. Eventually her arms wind around him. She clings to him, desperate and shaking.

“You’ve forgotten me,” she accuses, “you said you would come for me.” _If you do not come home soon Hawke, I will have to come get you_. “I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve waited so long.” Her legs don’t have the strength. Fenris supports her as they slowly move to the ground, kneeling in the dirt, still holding to each other. “I tried Fen. I tried not to…” Her eyes squeeze shut as tears roll down her cheeks.

“Why did you forget me?” She cries.

“I’m sorry.” The voice isn’t quite right. This isn’t him. She’s quick to her feet, pushing the spirit away. It fades back into the dust it once was. Hawke keeps walking.

* * *

 She wakes to a hand on her face, thumbs running over cheekbones. Warmth in his palm, tenderness in his touch. Sun slips through the cracks of the curtains, the smallest of light which brightens the whole room. The fire has long since died, embers cold. There’s softness in blankets, comfort in pillows, heat of him so close beside her. Hawke smiles at him, still slow with the touch of sleep. “Hello you,” she says softly.

“Hello,” he says. “I, ah – you looked sad. While you were sleeping.” The slightest frown. Fenris looks away from her, as if suddenly caught by the thought that what he’s done is wrong.

“Did I?” Her hands slide up his arms, wind around his neck. “I was having a bad dream.”

“What was it about?”

“I can’t remember now,” she says as he bends down to her, pressing a soft kiss against her lips. She tugs him down closer, laughing as he loses his balance. His weight settles on top of her as he presses kiss after kiss to the line of her jaw, at her throat. He looks up at her, so bright and happy, and she at him. She brushes a stray lock of white hair from his forehead, smiles as he rests his head against her chest, his arms wrapped around her.


	126. In Fading (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "hurt me with cullavellan pls. or hurt/comfort."

“In death, sacrifice.” Clarel’s lightning is not enough to kill the beast. It is enough to make it howl, to force it to run, confused and in pain. It skitters along the broken bridge, falls with wings outstretched. The weight of the beast is the last such old stones can take. They begin to crumble from underneath Lavellan’s feet. She struggles to hold onto the ledge, fingertips scrapping at stone. The last thing she sees before she falls is Cullen’s horror, the fear in his eyes, his hand outstretched as he races towards her. He doesn’t make it in time.

Her insides turn as she falls, hand outstretched as though the unspoken plea might save her. The mark sparks, sputters, feels the rift before she does. She pulls at it, tears at the veil, falls into the sky. Her fingers touch ground and the illusion shatters. She lands against dirt and dust, pushes herself up on all fours. The air is thicker, fouler feeling, vulgar tasting. It squeezes in from all sides, a crushing weight. She takes a shuddering breath as she rises to her feet. This is… the Fade.

She’s saved not only herself. Amongst the rock and ruin of the bridge, the others emerge. Solas, face filled with wonder. Bull, full of a fear she’s never seen before. Varric, shaking his head as though he’s done this all before. Hawke, taking her place beside the dwarf, her hand on his shoulder. Stroud, staring at the breach in an unfamiliar sky. Lavellan counts them all, looks for every scrape and cut and finds none. There is someone else she does not expect, someone she hoped made it off the bridge.

Lavellan pushes through the others to get to him. He’s on his knees, staring at green, his hand gripped around the hilt of his sword. “Cullen,” she says, her hands on his face, “you’re alright.” His eyes quickly turn to her, wide and half mad, his free hand gripping her arm.

“I saw you fall. I – I didn’t make it in time,” he tells her. “Is this - ? The Fade.”

“Yes,” she says as she helps him to his feet. He’s still holding her arm. She places her hand over his. She can feel the way he shakes, the subtle tremor in his grip. In the distance, she can hear the all-too familiar cry of a fear demon. The rage. The greed. The desire. Cullen is pale but does not waver, guards her back as they look for a way out.

“Perhaps _I_ should be afraid, facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition,” the voice of the demon booms around them, echoes in their skulls. It laughs with mockery, with malice. It speaks to all of them in turn. “Warden Stroud. How must it feel to devote your whole life to the Wardens, only to watch them fall? Or, worse, to know that you were responsible for their destruction. When the next Blight comes, will they curse your name?”

“Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn’t even save your city. How could you expect to strike down a God? Fenris is going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about.”

“Knight-Captain Cullen. You failed your charges just as you failed your Order. Under your watch, Kinloch Hold was lost to blood mages. Under your watch, Kirkwall burned. Have you told her yet? How you still hear the song? How you hear her magic – how much it frightens you? Did you tell her how you considered retaking the lyrium when you found out the precious Herald was a mage? Smite her down, just like all the other mages you murdered.”

Lavellan’s steps falter. She turns, looks over her shoulder. Her staff seems heavier, the air colder. Cullen’s sword has fallen to the ground, his hands pressed over his ears and his eyes squeezed shut. “No, I – I would never. She is – no, no, no. Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of –”

“Cullen.” She is gentle as she pulls down his hands. “We have to keep moving.”

“I would _never_ hurt you,” he tells her. She smiles, although the smile does not quite reach her eyes. Her thumb brushes against his cheekbones, the barest and lightest of touches. Her staff in her other hand, she turns, continues to lead on. Her back straight, her shoulders stiff, trying not to betray the unsteady beat of her heart.


	127. Sleeping (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Have You Slept? FenHawke"

“She’s in her room, serrah.” Fenris nods at the dwarf in thanks, before heading for the stairs. The door is slightly ajar, and he pushes it open with ease. The fire has long since died, untended and cold embers, and Hawke is hunched over her desk. Paper surrounds her, and she’s writing furiously, a frown etched on her face. There’s ink on her cheek, on her hands. He taps gently against the wall. She looks up, startled, relaxing when her gaze settles upon him.

“Fenris,” she says, “what time is it?”

“Morning. Have you slept?” He asks, going to her, fingers against her chin, tilting her face up towards him. The darkness under her eyes is ever growing, as more and more weight is placed upon her shoulders. He brushes a thumb against her cheek and she sighs as she leans into his touch. Her hand covers his, and she kisses his palm lightly.

“I suppose I haven’t,” she admits. His hand drops back to his side as she pushes out from the desk, stretches as she stands. He crosses his arms, and she cocks her head as she looks at him.

“You have it again,” she says.

“Have what?” She reaches out, presses a finger against the space between his brows.

“That frown.” He takes her hand in his, holding tightly as he closes the space between them. He wraps an arm around her, hand warm at the back of her neck, her head dropping to his shoulder. He presses a kiss against the shell of her ear.

“I worry for you,” he tells her. Her other hand is wound in his tunic, resting against his hip.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. He steps back, hands on her shoulders, moving to cup her face. He holds her tightly but never harshly, care in his touch, tenderness in the caress. Tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her brow, the small wisps of hair at her neck. His nose touches hers as he leans in, lips against hers. She’s helpless in his grasp, fingers tapping down her back, wrapping around to slip inside her robe.

Her head tilts back as he lays a kiss upon her neck. Teeth against sensitive flesh, marking what is his. His fingertips touch against each bump of her spine, the curve of her hips, all that she is, all that he knows, all that he loves. “Come to bed with me,” he says, seeking her lips once more.

“Yes,” she breathes.

They lie side by side, Hawke curled into Fenris’s arms. She’s tucked tightly, held fondly. His thumb rubs circles onto her shoulder, and he kisses the crown of her head. She mewls against his chest, so warm and safe, eyes closed. Their legs are wound together, hopelessly bound, no space lost between them. He can feel her breathe against him, growing slower, more even, as she drifts to sleep.

The window is open slightly, the breeze drifting inside the room, pushing lightly at the curtains. Shafts of sunlight stream across the bed where they lie, another blanket of warmth. Her head nestles closer, and he smiles at the small noises she makes. He holds her just a bit tighter. She may be Kirkwall’s Champion, but to him she was only Marian. His Hawke.


	128. Staying (Varric x Cassandra)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Hmm... DWC prompt: Tethraghast “Keep your eyes on me.” Something vaguely angsty, possibly with one of them being hurt?"

“-ker. Just – ” She’s trying to listen to what he’s saying but there’s a noise in her head that isn’t his voice. “… Eyes on me.” It’s a rowdy thing, of swirling cacophony, louder colors. It’s all a blur, a pain, an ache in her side the likes of which she’s never felt before. “Cassandra!” That gets her attention more than anything else could. When was the last time he ever said her name? That’s how she knows it must be bad. She pushes herself up on all fours, sees the blood that’s pooled beneath her.

She leans back, resting against rock, pressing her hands against it. It’s wet, uncomfortably warm. Blood seeps through her fingers, drools down the back of her hands. Varric is standing in front of her, firing arrow after arrow, finding each demon with deadly accuracy. How did this happen? She was supposed to be defending him. She was the shield. He’s stepping back as more and more approach, and she looks for her sword.

She finds it nearby, reaches out to hold it in a blood slick hand. She would not die on her back. She was Cassandra fucking Pentaghast, and the Maker could kindly shove it. She struggles to her feet, ignoring the screaming ache in her muscles, the stabbing pain in her bones. She uses the rock wall as leverage, leans against it as she raises her sword. “Well, Seeker, we had some fun, didn’t we?” Varric says, casting a quick grin over his shoulder.

“Yes,” she says, “we did.” Varric unclips the last of the grenades from his belt, throws it into the crowd. He steps back, towards her, pulls her down by the collar. There’s no time for romance, for tenderness. It’s all harsh desperation, a last act, a confirmation of what they already know. She tastes like iron. There’s something like sweetness on his tongue.

“Ohhhh! What the fuck Varric! That better be going in your book!” They break apart instantly, Varric whirling around to see Hawke throw a casual fireball, the Inquisitor and The Iron Bull heading towards the crowd of demons. “I will never unsee that, I hope you know that,” she says as she makes her way towards Cassandra, the smuggest grin on her face. Her hand lights up with a gentle glow, her touch kind as she presses it against Cassandra’s wound.

“I hate you,” Varric says as he slumps to the ground, Bianca in his arms. Hawke makes a mocking wounded noise, then imitates loud smooching at him, lips smacking together. It’s almost a blessing when Cassandra feels herself passing out.


	129. Rain (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “I brought you an umbrella”

It’s all white noise, static, the blur of rain falling pavement, drops hitting the metal of the overhang. She sits on the cold concrete of the windowsill, shoulders bent and back hunched, legs crossed. Her phone sits safely in her hands, her foot bounces in air. The clouds had swept in quickly, grey and darkness, carrying the downpour with them. It had stopped her in the middle of her walk home, forced her to seek shelter. _I think the bus should be here soon_. She taps the words quickly, pushes send. The message glows upon the screen, along with all the countless others they’ve sent each other. _Sorry I’m late._

 _It’s fine_. She smiles at his reply. Her messages to him were always long and rambling, one after the other, filled with whatever thought came to mind. Stupid jokes she had heard, worse ones she had thought of herself. Making up backstories for the strangers that came to the store, details of the lives she imagined for them. Questions she expects no answers for, given only to make him smile. His replies are much shorter, farther in between. Sometimes she only gets a single emoji in return. She loves them all. She knows how much he hates texting. The others were lucky to get a response. He always replies to her.

_So much for a nice walk home. The world doesn’t want me to be outside today._

_(◕ʖ̯◕) Sorry._ Hawke snorts laughter, hides the smile with her other hand. They’ve been texting since she got off work, a constant stream of back and forth. She had told him about the sudden rain, the run to shelter, the heavenly smell of the restaurant nearby. The four leaf clover stuck in the crack of the sidewalk before her, the cracked glass of the newspaper stand and the fading numbers of the bus stop sign. All the little details of her boredom, presented to him in grand detail.

There aren’t many people out and about, choosing to hide indoors instead of braving the rain. So when she hears the sound of rain hitting cloth, the shadow of an umbrella so near to her, she can’t help but look up and away from her phone. The smile bursts out of her as she stands, slipping her phone into her pocket. With all the things she had told him, of course he would know where to find her.

“Hello you,” she says “couldn’t wait for me, hmm? Did you miss me that much?” She slips her hand into his, tilting her head upwards to look at him, that smile still on her face. She watches as Fenris looks away from her, shy and not meeting her gaze, the tips of his ears red.

“You wanted to walk and I – I brought you an umbrella,” he says, holding it out to her, folded neatly. She looks at it for a moment, then shakes her head. She moves to his side, entwines her arm with his. She leans her head against his shoulder. She doesn’t notice Fenris subtly tilt the umbrella so that it covers more of her than him. She does notice the small kiss against the crown of her head.

“Would you like to go to dinner with me?”

“Why sir, are you asking me out on a date?” Hawke asks with mock surprise, pressing a hand against her chest. He chuckles, gifting her with the smile she loves so much.

“If the lady would do me the honor,” he tells her. Hawke’s grin only grows wider.


	130. Sharing (Dorian x M!Inquisitor) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “You can borrow mine.”

“ _Kaffas_ ,” he says, throwing his sopping wet bedroll to the floor. “I hate this place.” The Fallow Mire is a place of unending wet, a mist that hangs in the air, soaks into the ground. They’ve found an abandoned cottage but there is no salvaging their rain soaked things. Lavellan sits on the table, his feet on the chair, his elbow on his knee and his face resting on his hand. He chuckles and smiles at Dorian’s frown, that angry line between his brows, hands on his hips.

“You can borrow mine,” Lavellan tells him. Dorian raises his eyebrows, and closes the distance between them. Sitting up straight, they look at each other eye to eye. Lavellan leans into his touch as he traces curling lines of _vallaslin_ , closing his eyes as Dorian follows the shell of his ear. A hand at his neck and he pulls Lavellan’s face closer to his. A smile quirks at the edge of Dorian’s lips as Lavellan presses his forehead against his.

“Oh yes, I can hear it now. The latest gossip at Skyhold. The evil Tevinter Magister making the great and mighty Inquisitor go without a bed.” Lavellan laughs, wraps his arms around Dorian’s neck.

“I was rather hoping we’d share,” he says. Not that there would be any rumors. Cole and Iron Bull were sharing the cabin next to theirs, safely walls away. Dorian’s nose moves softly against Lavellan’s, and he watches as that familiar and satisfying red creeps into his cheeks, underneath tattooed lines.

“Even more scandalous,” he murmurs against his mouth. Lavellan downright giggles before he pulls him down into a kiss. There’s always laughter in his mouth, a smile on his tongue as his hands move to cup Dorian’s face, thumbs brushing over cheekbones, holding him gently. A muffled moan of pleasure as tongue meets seeking tongue, Lavellan’s back arching into him, no space left between them. When Dorian pulls away, Lavellan’s face follows, unwilling to relinquish him. His eyes are slow to open, his lips red, raw, plump with attention. It’s as though each kiss ruins him, only to be put back together by the next.

Dorian’s hands move underneath Lavellan’s thighs, one on either side of him, pull him closer to the edge of the table as his mouth goes to his neck. Lavellan tilts his head back, revealing more of his throat, hair falling back with him. He has one arm resting on Dorian’s shoulder, fingers playing with the curling strands of hair at his nape. “ _Sathan ma’lath_ ,” Lavellan says as Dorian grinds subtly against him, “please.” Dorian kisses the red marks he has made, smirks as Lavellan plants his hands against the table, leaning back and licking his lips. He goes to work at his armor, pulling off belt after belt, shedding layer after layer.

“Why must Dalish armor be so complicated?” He grumbles, pulling hard at a strap.

“You’re one to talk,” he laughs. Impatience fuels quicker movements, and Lavellan lifts his hips as Dorian tugs off his pants. Dorian runs his hand over his chest, following line after line, the swirling branches that wrap around his body. Lavellan breathes quicker under his attentions, those teasing touches, one hand leaving the table to wind into Dorian’s hair, tug him down for a hard kiss. All tongue and teeth, pulling at his bottom lip, leaving them both gasping.

Lavellan’s other hand is deftly untying the lacings of Dorian’s breeches, nimbly undoing the knot and slipping his hand inside. He groans when that hand wraps around his length, begins to stroke him slowly and tightly. A thumb over the pre-cum beading at the tip, smearing it down the underside of his shaft. Without looking, without breaking the kiss, Dorian reaches for the bag beside Lavellan, roots around in it until his fingers find the small vial he’s searching for.

He’s clumsy with the stopper, spilling oil over his hand and over Lavellan, but neither seem to mind. It’s warm, slick, and Lavellan gasps at that first touch over his cock. It’s all quick attention, moving ever downwards to more elusive prey. Lavellan spreads his legs wider and needs no encouragement to do so. Dorian brushes slick fingertips against his entrance, slowly and lightly, endlessly teasing, savoring the way Lavellan twists and moans against him. “Dorian,” Lavellan says, wrist twisting, drawing out more salt, raising his fingers to his mouth.

Dorian’s cock twitches as he watches Lavellan’s tongue swirl around his fingers, tasting him. He’s looking at him in a way that suggests he knows exactly what this does. Dorian groans helplessly at the smirk, the way Lavellan licks his lips. Even better when Dorian presses his finger inside, listens as his breath stutters, his head thrown back. Mouth open, chest heaving, glorious marks upon his neck. Thunder booms outside, rain falling against the roof. Heavy breathing, the murmur of a name, broken tevene and elvish mixing on desperate tongues.

Lavellan folds against him, wrapping arms around him, mouth closing over Dorian’s shoulder. Biting against the leather of his armor, eyes closed and shaking, trembling all over, as Dorian thrusts more fingers inside. An easy rhythm, opening him more and more, legs shaking as they wrap around Dorian’s waist. “ _Isala ma_ ,” Lavellan tells him. Dorian hums happiness, all his studying paying off in such perfect ways. _Want you_. It’s whispered against his ear over and over again, Lavellan’s hands scrabbling over his shoulders.

“Patience _amatus_ ,” Dorian says, planting a kiss against his temple.

“I’m ready,” he half growls in return. “If you do not fuck me right now, I will go mad.”

“Bossy, bossy,” he says, pulling fingers free, wrapping a hand around his own cock. Lavellan is kissing him again, over and over, quick and hurried things, hands unable to settle as he feels the tip of him at his entrance. With a steady roll of his hips, Dorian pushes inside and he feels Lavellan’s legs tighten their hold around him. Lavellan falls back upon the table, his head tilted to the side and eyes closed, knuckles pressed against his mouth.

His hair has come apart from that messy bun of his, long strands about him like a halo. Lightning flashes, the thunder follows, Dorian plants his hand against his chest and feels his heart beat beneath his palm. Lavellan’s hand wraps around his wrist, moves upwards, gasping into him, rocking his hips in time with Dorian. Looking at him now, those bright green eyes on the way Dorian moves, biting his bottom lip. That tight heat all around him, and everything except the man before him is forgotten. “Mahanon,” the name is half ripped from him, an ache under each syllable.

“ _Ma vhenan_ ,” Lavellan answers. Dorian leans over him, head resting against his chest as he ruts inside him. Behind Dorian’s back, Lavellan’s legs link, toes curled. He runs a hand through his hair, dark and lustrous, feeling warm breath against his skin. One of Dorian’s hands is fisted against the table, while the other bruises against his hip, holding him tightly. “Dorian.” He groans at the sound of his own name, raises his head to see Lavellan’s head tilted back against the table, his back arching beneath him.

Dorian rights himself as he wraps a hand around Lavellan’s cock, the other still at his hip, stroking him as he thrusts inside. He watches as Lavellan curls like a cat, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open, hands reaching out towards him. Dorian leans forward, kisses a spread palm. He feels the hand shake upon his cheek, thunder muffling the ragged cry as Lavellan spills himself. It’s too much, all of it, the tightening feel, and how beautiful he looks - his face flushed so with orgasm. Dorian slips from him just as he cums, and seed joins seed upon Lavellan’s belly.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he says as he slowly pushes himself upwards. Dorian watches a strand of hair land against his shoulder, slip down his back. Newly broken, newly made, he watches him through eyes half-lidded. “Take off your armor.” Dorian raises his eyebrows, spreads his arms wide.

“And if we are attacked in the night? Are we to scare them away with our nudity?” Lavellan gives a warning growl and Dorian laughs, taking his face in his hands. He holds him gently, his wonderful _amatus_ , closing his eyes as he smiles, kisses him once again.


	131. A Weakness (Fenris x F!Hawke & Solas x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I know your weakness and its kisses prompt, for either fenhawke or solavellan"

He holds her like glass, thinks she might shatter under his touch. Just there, under his fingertips. Soft and gentle, the steady beat of her heart. He traces the line of her jaw, the vines like ivy across her face, brushes thumbs over cheekbones. Her hand over his. Pressing it against her face, leaning into his touch, closing her eyes. Opening again, so bright and wide, looking only at him. She shifts, moves, hands on his shoulders, sitting on his lap, knees stained green against grass.

Smiling as she cups his face, warmth in her palms. Her nose brushing against his, light laughter flitting, flowing through her, putting it in him. He feels it in the way his ribs seem to tighten, a cage for what beats quicker. A burden, a weight, this heart is. Too caught and captured by the way her lips fit against his. “Solas,” she murmurs against his mouth. The cage tightens once again. His hands travel the length of her, splaying against her back. He holds her like glass, thinks she might shatter. He fears it will be his fault.

Her glass is stained with color and he can’t see through, doesn’t know she’s stronger than he thinks. There’s iron wrapped around bone and muscle, tendrils of metal holding her together. He can’t see it. He can’t feel it. He knows her mouth is sweetness and lilacs, sugar and pastry. He knows her tongue is explorative, playful, testing and teasing against his own. He knows he’s lost when his eyes close, and all he can see in the dark is her, lighting the way.

They part slowly, lips red and raw, face flushed and eyes half-lidded. He tucks a stray lock of hair behind pointed ears. “ _Vhenan_ ,” he says.

* * *

She falls into bed beside him, a sigh slipping from her, a groan as she turns over. Shifting closer to him, throwing an arm over his chest. Nestling her head into the crook of his arm, winding their legs together. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. She smells of smoke and ash, the acrid taste of lyrium and magic. “Templars again?” He asks. She grunts out an answer, and he can feel her nod against him. He shifts, lying on his side, his forehead pressed against hers.

Her eyes are closed, her mouth slightly open, breathing softly. He brushes the smudge of soot away from her cheek, tucks hair behind her ears. It always seems to fall across her face just so, a darkened slice against a paler sky. Freckles upon her skin like stars, eyes opening to reveal twin moons, a devastating blue. Lips like wine, tasting better than any he’s ever known. Intoxicating and addictive, he will never tire of it.

“Hello you,” she says softly. “Have I told you how nice it is having you here?” At least a hundred, thousand times before. Every time she comes home, seeks him out, his touch, his comfort and his smile. Every time she greets him at the door, her arms outstretched, a grin beaming across her face. Home, home, home.

“Say it again,” he tells her, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly. She brushes the tip of her nose playfully against his with a pleased hum.

“I’m happy you’re here Fenris,” she says, “I love you.”


	132. Breakfast (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I really hope the Fic Meme was an invitation, because I could really need a Fenris/Hawke with nr. 6 “H-how long have you been standing there?”

Someone’s opened the window. The curtains are sheer white, sunlight beaming through them, swaying lightly in the breeze. The room is warm but the wind is a gentle coolness, along with the smell of freshly cut grass and newly bloomed lilacs. Birds sit upon the tree outside the window, chirping their song to those across the city. He lies upon his stomach, face buried in the pillow, opening his eyes slowly. He’s content to lay there a few moments more before stretching, forcing life into sleep dazed limbs.

The blanket is draped haphazardly across his lower half, one leg half hanging off the bed. He turns, rolls onto his back, and brushes away the hair that’s fallen across his forehead. He blinks at the speckled ceiling after rubbing his eyes, slowly sits up. Toes touch against cold hardwood, the rest of his feet soon following. It takes him a few moment to find his boxers, thrown carelessly to the floor last night. One leg after the other, leaning against the dresser to help him keep his balance.

He opens the door to the bedroom, walks through the hallway, following the sound of music and the smell of bacon. He smiles, leans against the doorway of the kitchen. Mr. Barks raises his head, looks at Fenris, then settles his head back upon his paws and closes his eyes once again. Hawke is not quite so observant. The radio is blaring out some generic song, which he is only too happy to sing along to. He’s wearing only a frilly apron, tied in a perfect bow behind his back. The strings of the apron are bouncing against bare butt cheeks as Hawke dances. Fenris crosses his arms, covers his mouth with his hand as he stifles laughter.

Hawke is blissfully unaware as he scrambles eggs, bouncing from foot to foot, belting out lyrics in an exaggerated tune. The kitchen is bright with more than just Hawke, although the window above the countertops remains closed. Plants hang from the ceiling, nestle in corners beside the microwave and on top of the fridge. There’s a small table against the wall, with only two chairs. There’s plates already set, filled glasses of orange juice upon coasters and cutlery neatly arranged. Hawke’s settled a small vase in the center of the table and filled it with a few plucked flowers.

Hawke’s still humming when he turns around with a platter full of food, nearly drops it when he sees Fenris. He stumbles back against the counter, quickly shoves the platter back where it came from. “H-how long have you been standing there?” Hawke asks.

“I’ve seen everything,” Fenris tells him.

“Maker’s breath,” he says as he rubs his face with his hands, hiding the blush that’s creeping into his cheeks. He turns, faces away from Fenris, staring down at the food. Fenris chuckles as he closes the distance between them, slips his hands underneath the apron. They splay against Hawke’s chest as he hugs him tightly, kisses the space between his shoulder blades.

“Good morning Hawke,” he says quietly. The stiff line of Hawke’s shoulders eases as he turns, swallowing him up in a hug.

“Good morning Fenris,” he murmurs against hair, kisses the crown of his head.


	133. Walls (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Fen/f!hawke 6&8 pls make it hurt" I have loved since you. But when the new paint gets scratched, there you are underneath. (My heart is layers of scar.) & Ah, unrequited love. When your best isn’t enough. (Participation medals of the heart.))

Long have his walls stood strong. Built when they were needed most, shielding him from rough hands, rougher orders. Reinforced time and time again, fixing the cracks that threatened to appear. Now, so far gone from that time, he’s let them fall into disrepair. Moss has appeared. Flowers grow in the cracks. There are hands, different than his, kinder than he could have imagined, taking down the wall stone by stone. She pulls at each one with ease, hands them down to him. She speaks words he cannot hear, doesn’t understand. She smiles and the stone he is holding crumbles into dust, ash falling through his fingers.

A hand upon his shoulder, traveling the width of his back, ending on the other as Hawke sits herself down next to him. Elbows on the table, leaning forward as she looks at him, fingers over the rim of her mug. She breathes the lightest chuckle, shares the brightest smile. Fenris looks down at the hands folded in his lap, the red around his wrist. He keeps his gaze away from her, and the tips of his ears burn with red. Only when she begins to speak to Aveline does he dare look up again. She speaks with her hands as much as her mouth, her whole body reflecting every word she says.

Her cheeks glow with the tint of alcohol, and she’s throwing back her head and laughing. Slender fingers tuck strands of raven hair behind her ears. When she smiles, her eyes smile too, blue brilliant and bright. He memorizes the way hair drifts against her forehead, the curve of her nose, the red of her lips. He steals what glances he can without her noticing. He thinks she does anyway. She turns to face him, chin resting against knuckles, wraps the other arm over his shoulders and pulls him close. “Fenris agrees with me, don’t you?” She says, her head knocking against his.

He’s not quite sure what he’s agreeing to but he nods anyway. He misses the warmth of her when she pulls away, half standing and leaning over the table, stealing three gold pieces from Isabela’s grasp. Laughing as she falls back into her seat, hands in fists against her chest, protecting her bounty. Isabela slaps hands against the table as she pushes herself up, runs around the table. Arms that wrap around Hawke, hands at wrists, pulling them lose.

Merrill is giggling in her chair, cheeks pink as she watches them. Sebastian smiles something at Varric even as he shakes his head, both of them keeping an eye on Hawke. Anders has his arms crossed on the table, looking at Hawke with something like wonder. Hawke gives them everything and yet gives them nothing. Isabela returns to her seat, the others fold into conversations amongst themselves. Hawke is putting the gold in her pockets, stretching like a cat. He agrees to walk her home.

They walk amongst the quiet, the background noise of the city. Stars burn overhead, and the moon lights the streets. She has her hands clasped behind her back, the remnants of a smile still lingering around her lips. Her hands unwind, unbind, bounce against her as they reach the door of her estate. He barely feels himself moving, reaching, and taking her hand in his. She cocks her head, confusion knitting her brows as she looks at him.

The words are half-formed, clumsy, but needing to be said. “Hawke, I have been thinking and I – I am willing to try again, if you are,” he tells her. Regret that he is attempting to erase, a feeling unearthed and not felt in so long. He might have loved before he was Fenris. If he did, he does not recognize it. It’s raw in his chest and in his throat, swallowing fire and desperately needing more. A taste given that one night, unleashed every night since.

Hawke tugs her hand back from his grasp. She holds it although he has burned her, stabbed her, eyes wide with something like fear. The line of her mouth is thin and she is backing away from him. “I can’t.” The words rip from her. “You left and I –” her jaw clenches, she presses hands against her eyes. “I can’t do that again.”

“Hawke, I –” Love you, need you, want you. After all, I am yours. He is stepping forward, a hand outstretched towards her but she is shaking her head.

“No,” she bites out the word, hands falling to her side. “Whatever you think it is you feel for me, bury it.” She turns, disappears into the darkness of her estate.

Long have his walls stood strong. Crumbling now, falling into ruin, disappearing into an ocean he’s created. There’s dust on his hands, ash at his feet. The flowers have begun to wilt. He begins to rebuild, stone by stone.


	134. Sick (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Persuasive Partners - (character) is sick, and refusing to stay put; their partner(s) give them a good reason to stay in bed

He thinks he used to be good at hiding things. He’s startled awake, sitting up as Lavellan opens the flap to his tent. He crawls forward over Dorian, straddling him, pressing his forehead against his. “I knew it,” he says, “you’re burning up.” He wraps his arms around him, pulling Dorian’s face against his chest. Kiss after kiss against the crown of his head. “We’re going back to Skyhold.” Dorian pulls his face away, his hands on Lavellan’s hips as he looks up at the worried elf.

“It’s nothing _amatus_. We still have unfinished, important, things here –”

“Not as important as you are to me,” Lavellan says. The words die in his mouth as Lavellan cups his face, kisses him gently. The journey back to Skyhold is miserable as whatever illness was beginning took hold and rooted deep inside him. Dorian leans back in the saddle, slumping against Lavellan and closing his eyes. He barely feels the cold when it begins to snow, hardly aware of Lavellan helping him into bed.

He’s only dimly aware of the fact that it is not his bed, not his quarters. It’s a blur of sleep and hazy wakefulness, a stream of healers. The only thing he is sure of is Lavellan’s hand has not left his. A tight grip, warm but not in the way of the fever, the comforting sort. During one of the periods when Dorian is awake, Lavellan brushes hair from his forehead and plants a kiss. Dorian struggles to sit up but all it takes is one hand pressing down on his chest for him to give up. “I need to go to Crestwood. I’ll be back soon,” Lavellan tells him.

“I’ll come with you,” Dorian is saying, pleading. He shakes his head, a firm no. Dorian reaches up, fists a hand in his tunic. “I need to protect you.” Lavellan smiles, wraps a hand around Dorian’s fist. His head pounds, aches, chest tight and skin burning but there is that underlying need to be by his side. Always ready with a barrier for his reckless ass. Without him…

“I’ll have Solas,” he tells him quietly, “Bull and Cole as well. It will be fine.” Dorian is shaking his head as he brushes fingers against his cheek. “We won’t be gone long. Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake. I’ll bring you back a gift.” Lavellan carefully pries Dorian’s fingers from his tunic. A small squeeze as he places his hand back on the bed. Another kiss against his forehead as he turns to leave. Lavellan pauses, and turns at Dorian’s hand still lingering in his.

“Take Cassandra,” Dorian says weakly, “Bull is… he likes the fight too much sometimes.”

“I’ll take Cassandra.” Lavellan smiles.

The periods of waking are longer now, less of a fog. Being confined to a bed boring, and he knows the healers are drawing straws on who to deal with him. Vivienne finally brings him a stack of books, dumps them on the bed. They’re all books on elven culture, elven language. They keep him occupied until Lavellan returns. He sits up when he hears the footsteps on the stairs, sees his head over the railing.

Lavellan sees him sitting up, eases into a relieved smile as he moves to sit on the edge of the bed. There’s something in one of his hands. With the other, he brushes a thumb against Dorian’s cheekbones, moves in for a deep kiss. He lingers there, unwilling and reluctant to let go. “I promised you a gift,” Lavellan says at last. It’s a small trinket, the head of a halla with mighty horns. Curling around the horns is a snake. Lavellan leans over him as he ties the knot around his neck. It bounces against Dorian’s chest, and he reaches up to touch it. He’d know Lavellan’s handiwork anywhere.

“It’s beautiful,” Dorian says. Lavellan is still pressing hands against his forehead, the nape of his neck, searching for any remnant of fever. There’s a knot between his brows as he does, until Dorian finally reaches for him, taking his hands in his. “ _Aneth ara_.” The look of surprise on Lavellan’s face is well worth the hours of boredom, and of reading. He laughs as he leans forward, kisses Dorian again.

“ _Ar lath, ma vhenan_ ,” he says.


	135. Rain and Fire (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: kiss prompt fenhawke 1&10 please! "breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that you’re murmuring into each other’s mouths" & "staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in"

He can hear her laughter despite the onslaught of rain. It pours against the stone of Hightown, patters off the canvas of merchant stalls. A twang as it hits metal, a duller thud as it pounds against wood. They run together and she laughs, even as the cold soaks them to the bone. Their feet splash against water as they race through the streets, weaving through the winding city. She looks over her shoulder at him, stretches out her hand. Without hesitation, he takes it.

Hawke pulls him with her, underneath what shelter the doorframe gives. She’s fumbling in her pockets, looking for a key, one hand still wrapped around his. She pulls him through the door when she finally opens it, closes it behind them. She pushes at wet bangs, pulls water from her hair. She’s chuckling as she does the same for him, reaching upwards and pushing at the hair which hangs over his eyes. Her teeth are chattering. He can see the gooseflesh on her arms.

Her laughter stills when Fenris cups her face in his hands. He’s known too many nights of cold. Running alone in the dark, hiding in all those shadowed corners. Too afraid to light a fire. Not anymore. Her lips are cool, slick, red and perfect. Her hands wrap around his wrists, travel down his arms. She lands at his waist, pulls herself closer. This isn’t the first time they’ve kissed. It won’t be the last. Every night has been an experiment, a test, an exploration of boundaries.

A hand at the nape of her neck, the other splayed between shoulder blades. She winds her hands in his tunic, pulling at him. Her lips are cold but growing warmer. She opens her mouth to him, allows his tongue against hers, and he finds a different sort of heat. He can feel raindrops dripping down the side of his face, landing against her cheeks. Their noses bump as they shift, his hand winding into her hair. There’s no space between them and he thinks she might feel how his heart pounds.

He nearly groans when she settles her feet off her toes, begins to pull away. His face follows her for a moment, loathe to stop. Eyes slow to open, and still she clings to him. She looks up at him shyly, her cheeks red. He knows the tips of his ears are the same. “Fenris, I’m–” a low whisper, hoarse with the kiss, her breath against his mouth, “we should dry off.” She tangles her hands in his, and he is helpless to do anything but follow her.

The steps up the stairs are light, avoiding the spots that creak. The door to Leandra’s room is closed, and he knows Bodahn and Sandal are sleeping elsewhere. She shuts the door to her room carefully, summons flames to the fireplace. Instantly the warmth crackled, light flickers. “Perhaps – perhaps I should go home,” he says as she opens her closet, begins digging through.

“And go out in that again? You can just stay here.” She turns, a bundle of clothes in her arms, a towel thrown over her shoulder. She presses the clothes against his chest. “Stay here,” she says and he finds he cannot say no. His hands close over hers as he takes them from her. She smiles, takes the towel and drapes it over his head. Instantly his world is darkness, and her hands are working against his head. He closes her eyes, lets her dry his hair.

“Don’t look,” she says as she turns away from him, walks to the other side of the bed, hands at the buttons of her tunic. He clears his throat, faces the fire. He changes quickly. The clothes are Carver’s, much too large for him. At least he won’t be needing them while he’s with the Wardens. “You can turn around now.” When he does, she’s got a hand on the blanket, slipping into the bed. She lies on her side, pats the empty space beside her.

He joins her, faces her, and reaches for her. A hand on her arm, tracing the curve of her waist, settling on her hip. She licks her lips. Her gaze drops from his eyes to his mouth, back to his eyes once again. She presses her forehead against his, wraps an arm around him. He’s spent too many nights in the cold. Human heat, the kind he’s never known, and her fingers are fluttering underneath the shirt, pressing against his back. His nose taps against hers and permission is given when she closes her eyes. “Fenris,” she murmurs just before he kisses her.

It doesn’t take much to ease her onto her back, stretch himself over her. Fingertips against his spine, up and down. Goosebumps different from the rain on his skin. She tastes like the sun itself. His elbows dig into the mattress and he does not press his full weight against her. Not until she asks, pressing against him, pulling him down, groaning into his mouth as her legs wrap around his waist. She tucks hair behind his ears, threads her fingers through still damp locks.

“Hawke – I – I’m sorry. I forget myself,” Fenris says as he pulls away. She smiles up at him, brushes a hand against his face. She plants a kiss on each cheek, his forehead. She pulls him into the crook of her arm, holds him lightly. Her hand moves in circles on his back. He closes his eyes, finds peace in the steady rhythm of her heart. He’s not sure when sleep takes him. He wakes tangled up in her, limb draped over limb. He raises his head, listens to the birds outside. She murmurs in her sleep, pulls him back down.


	136. The Way to Your Heart (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: " “Fenris and f!Hawke, pre-A Bitter Pill but after both of them have realized how into each other they are: Hawke cooks Fenris's favorite dish (maybe apple pie or something?) and it's that "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach" thing.... Fenris definitely approves and starts crushing on Hawke even harder because *she cooked that just for him*”"

He brings the wine. The cellar is slowly emptying, bottles shared between them. It’s Hawke who first suggested it after taking one look at the state of his kitchen. It hadn’t changed much from when he first took over the mansion. He’d rather get food at the Hanged Man with the others, or go to some other tavern by himself. At first it was a trick – perhaps Leandra needed his help with something, or could they discuss the plans for tomorrow at the estate? Now it is routine to go to Hawke’s and eat dinner with her.

Leandra smiles when she opens the door for him. “She’s in the kitchen dear,” she tells him, “careful or she’s likely to set you on fire too.” Fenris’s eyebrows raise slightly. He finds her where she is promised, hands on her hips. She’s wearing a loosely fitting white tunic, and darker leggings. There are flour finger marks swiped across her legs. She’s staring at the stove, her back to him, unaware that he is even there. She bends down, hands on the stove.

“You piece of twisted shite. I hate you. You fuck. You fucking arse,” she’s snarling.

“I am sure your new neighbors are pleased with your extensive vocabulary,” Fenris says as he sets the bottle of wine down on the table. Hawke leaps to her feet with a startled yelp, turning around, a hand pressed against her chest. There’s a flour swipe upon her cheek. Her hair is loosely bound of the way of her face, but that one damnable piece keeps stubbornly falling.

“Maker’s breath, you scared me half to death,” she says. He chuckles under his breath as the line of her shoulders relax, and she laughs along with him. “I suppose I can forgive you since it was only half.” She brushes that lock of hair behind her ears, just missing the flour on her cheek. He clenches his hands into fists, resists the urge to brush it off for her.

“Doesn’t Bodahn usually cook?” Fenris asks as he takes his seat, the plate already set in front of him. He cracks open the bottle, pours a bit for each of them in the glasses Hawke’s put on the table.

“Yes well,” Hawke crosses her arms and leans against the counter, “I wanted to make you something myself.” An odd feeling twists in his chest at her words. He knows how much Hawke hates cooking – she’s spoken of it often enough. She scratches the bridge of her nose, uses towels to pull something out of the oven. She fills their plates with meat and potatoes, green beans. She sits across from him at the table, sipping at her wine, asking him about his day.

It’s all profoundly boring and wonderful, Hawke with her elbows on the table, listening intently to everything he says. They talk about nothing and yet he’s hung on her every word, on the way she laughs, and how she touches the corners of her mouth before she speaks. When they finish, she stands again and sighs. “I tried, I really did. It still folded in the middle. I don’t know why!” She places an apple pie on the table. “I know it’s your favorite,” she says.

It was a statement in the middle of a fight from months ago. _What’s your favorite food?_ She had asked as she set a bandit alight. “I’m sorry if it’s horrible,” she says. It’s not. It might be the best thing he’s ever had. He reaches across the table, brushes the flour from her cheek. Hawke turns bright red, presses a hand to where his fingers once were.

“Flour,” he says.

“Was that there all night? Maker’s breath, you should have said something sooner,” she says. He laughs as she groans, buries her face in her hands.


	137. Until the Storm's Past (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ""17 + (obviously) Fenhawke?" I do not believe in love at first sight. But god damn. (Look at you.)"

It takes him far too long to open his eyes. His head rests upon her shoulder, his arms wrapped around her. She has one hand on his back while the other threads through his hair, humming softly as she does. He thinks he might recognize the tune, a lullaby from a different time, a different name. She is warm in his arms, breathing lightly against the shell of his ear. When Fenris opens his eyes, it’s to a dying fire, low burning embers. He pushes himself up to sit on the floor, rubs his face with his hands. The dream again.

He kicks over a bottle as he stands, listens to it roll against the stones, stop at the wall. There’s knocking at the door. It’s what woke him, he guesses. He’s instantly irate at the door, and the person standing behind it. He wanted to sleep for longer. He wanted to stay dreaming. It’s the walking which does it. Wakes the beast inside his skull, rattling around with stones. He was – last night. Drinking with Isabela and Sebastian. A lesson in overindulgence.

“What,” he snaps as he opens the door, stops the person mid knock.

“Good morning to you too,” Hawke says.

“I apologize, Hawke. I believed you to be someone else,” he says as he presses a hand to his temple. She flashes a smile briefly as she pushes past him, a basket in her arms.

“I saw Sebastian earlier,” she says, “he looks just about as good as you do.” She places the basket on the desk while he still stands, one hand on the open door. She places first a bottle, “not alcohol,” and then bread, “you need to eat something.” She turns, crosses her arms, and leans against the table as she studies him. A faint smile crosses her lips and disappears as quickly as it had come.

“You’re still wearing it,” she says, her eyes falling to the red wrapped around his wrist. Instinctively, his hand closes around it. He feels the fabric, soft and kind, underneath his fingertips. He has broken something between them, created something deeper red than the sash. There’s an itch, an ache, a snap and a breach inside him. It stops him from repairing what he tore apart. This is her first mention of it in years. Not even when she first gave him the token.

Her eyes had been red rimmed, the smile faked. She had tied it around his wrist while she talked of family tradition. While she talked about the weather. While she talked about bandits on the coast. Anything but that night. It was then that he wanted to reach out, take her face in his hands. Breathe new life back into her. Give her back whatever happiness he had stolen. He had been stealing from her for years. From that first glance, the first moment when he found the courage to raise his eyes to hers.

“I’m sorry,” he says. She closes the distance between them.

“I know,” she tells him. She reaches out, brushes a hand against his cheek. At once, the pounding in his skull disappears. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” She smiles softly, briefly, before leaving.


	138. Left Behind (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “vague prompt: some kind of reunion between fenhawke because those things end meeee”

They tell him she is dead. They come wearing the insignia of the Inquisition, carrying a letter. They tell him that she was brave, that she saved the Inquisitor, that her sacrifice would not be forgotten. They tell him she is dead and that Hawke isn’t coming home. They leave him with that letter, filled with meaningless words, empty phrases. He wishes he never learned to read. He spends too long staring at it until it’s all a blur, ink splotches he can’t understand. _I’m sorry Fenris._

He busies himself in nothing, taking what odd jobs are thrown his way. Mostly given to him by Aveline, who comes to see him regularly. Every inch of the estate is spotless. He sweeps every day, dusts every second. Her books are where she left them. Her desk, untouched. He plays diamondback with Donnic, helps Merrill repair the houses in the alienage. Sebastian sends wine from Starkhaven, along with his condolences. Fenris folds the letter, keeps it with all the others.

They tell him he looks well. They don’t know about all the nights he spends lying awake. Sleep means dreaming and dreaming only brings her. She haunts him like a ghost, a shadow, at the edge of his vision. She drifts around his thoughts, trapped in a place he cannot reach, cannot save her from. Sometimes she speaks to him. Tells him she’s trying. That she’s sorry. That she loves him. Dark circles pool around his eyes, evidence of the time spent reading instead of sleeping.

The days blur together. The weeks, the months. It’s years gone when the Inquisition once again knocks at his door. Two soldiers standing side by side on his doorstep. “A letter for you, ser,” one of them says, passes it forward. Varric’s script, neat and flowing. _It’s Hawke. The Inquisitor pulled her from a Rift. It’s fucking Hawke._ He crumbles the letter in his hand as he looks up. The soldiers step aside, revealing the person behind them.

She’s thinner than he remembers, greener around the edges. She looks up, blue eyes brighter than he thought possible. “Fenris,” she says and the letter slips from his grasp, falls to the floor. He closes the distance between them.

His hands tremble as they reach for her. He nearly breaks at the first feel of her beneath his fingertips. She’s _real_. A hand at her nape, pulling her forward, the other wrapping around her. He nearly crushes her in his arms, and he cannot stop himself from shaking. He feels her hands at his back, fisting into his tunic, pulling at him just as tightly as he pulls at her. He hears a choking sob of relief as she buries her face against his chest.

He shifts them, cups her face in his hands. She reaches up, knits white hair between her fingers, and tucks loose locks behind his ears. She is trembling just as much as he is, unwilling to let him go, not able to stop touching him. His face, his shoulders, his arms, back to his face again, smiling as she brushes fingers against his cheeks. He presses his forehead against hers, and they both close their eyes, taking a shuddering breath at the same time.

“I promised,” she says, “I promised you I’d come home.”

“Yes,” he says as he presses a kiss to her lips. He takes her in his arms once again, a feeling he’s missed far too much. “Hawke.” He cannot help the murmur of her name, over and over again, a whispered chant. “Hawke, Hawke, _Hawke_.”

“I’m here. Fenris. I’m here.”

“Don’t you ever do that again,” he tells the crown of her head, listens to her watery laugh against his chest. “Don’t leave me again.”

“Okay,” she says softly, “it’s a promise.”


	139. A Switch (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "fic meme, fenhawke, 21 B) (author's choice)."  
> a serious Angst warning

A hand moves across her belly and he pulls himself closer to plant a kiss upon her temple. Breathing deeply as she shifts, she doesn’t open her eyes even as she opens her arms to him, pulls him into an embrace. He’s warm wrapped in blankets and wrapped up in her. “We have to get up,” he says, and she murmurs soft words, gentle noises of protestation. He chuckles under his breath as she holds him tighter. He carefully untangles himself from her, kisses the inside of her wrist, and feels her pulse under his lips. “I have to go.”

She opens her eyes at that, tired blue in the morning light. She reaches upwards, her hand against his face, brushing a thumb over cheekbones. “Tomorrow,” she tells him. He laughs as he leans forward, presses his forehead against hers. He kisses the tip of her nose before he slips from the bed.

“You said that yesterday. And the day before. We cannot put this off any longer,” he says. Hawke pushes herself up to sit, leans against the headboard with her hands linked together as she watches him dress. She sighs, lips twisting downward, brows knitting together.

“I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“I know,” he says. He walks to her side of the bed, takes one of her hands in his. He kisses her forehead. One on each cheek. Finally, her lips. “But we did promise Varric.” His assurances don’t break the frown. There’s a bag already packed on the table. A cloak, his sword. She pulls a robe over her shoulders as she follows him down the stairs. They’ve said most of their goodbyes already. But words are words and they cannot – he takes her face in his hands. She reaches up, wraps hands around his wrists. He brushes away the tears that roll down her cheeks.

“I will return soon,” Fenris tells her. She nods, a gesture more for him than for her. He kneels before her, kisses the swell of her belly. It’s barely noticeable. He looks up at her, and she tucks hair behind his ears. A finger traces the line of his nose, a thumb memorizes the curve of his lips. He closes his eyes as he feels her hands shake.

“Be safe,” she says as he stands, “come home to me.”

“Always.” One last kiss. Hawke hugs arms around herself as Fenris closes the door behind him.

* * *

They race under the shadow of a dragon, wings outstretched, and breathing red lyrium. The walls of Adamant are crumbling around them as they chase after Clarel. Fenris moves nimbly beside the Inquisitor, sword in his hands. He can hear Varric’s complaints about running behind him, the click of Vivienne’s heels against stone. Cassandra and Stroud are soundless just as much as the Inquisitor, fully focused on their task. Clarel is screaming, shouting, yelling all her sins and all her guilt at Erimond. He is no match for the enraged Warden. The broken bridge is already shaking. It’s no surprise when the dragon makes it fall.

Fenris reaches for stone after stone, trying to cling to the ledge. As he falls, he thinks of Hawke. He thinks of her smile, all her glory framed in sunlight. The way she bites her bottom lip, battles with raven hair that refuses to obey her. How she’d gasp beneath him, hands moving down his back. He’d sleep in her arms, her lips pressed against her forehead. The nightmares that used to plague him were banished by her touch. How when she talks, her whole body moves with her words, eyes sparkling with passion. He thinks of the way she told him, taking his hand, pressing it against her belly, unable to contain the smile. How she laughed when he spun her in his arms.

The Inquisitor opens a rift below them, and the Fade swallows them whole.

The first thing he knows is unspeakable pain. On his knees, hands curled at his chest, head touching cold ground. It’s a whip made of magic, wielded by Danarius. Like tendrils under his skin, ripping at his markings, making the lyrium in his skin scream. But Danarius is long dead. There is no whip here. There is only the Fade, raw magic, and it is tearing him apart. Fenris holds shaking hands in front of him, watches as carefully constructed lyrium lines shake and scatter, flooding through him. “Broody,” Varric is saying, hands on his shoulder, terror in his eyes, “Fenris.” His teeth are gritted shut, unable to make a sound. The lyrium spills from his eyes, trickles from his nose.

He’s only vaguely aware of Vivienne at his side, a hand on his back, pouring magic into him and trying to reform the cage. He can taste it like acid in his mouth. “What’s happening to him?” The Inquisitor asks, Cassandra at their side. Vivienne looks up, speaks clinically.

“Whatever spell held the markings in place, the Fade has undone,” she says.

“Can it be put back?” Varric asks, panic in his voice as his fingers bruise into Fenris’s shoulder. Vivienne looks at him, shakes her head.

“It can be managed, but it will never return to the state it was. Even if we could fix it - by now, with the amount inside of him, it’s likely poisoned him. He’d have months, at most. A rather slow death,” she says.

“Don’t speak of me as if I am not here,” Fenris growls, forces himself to stand. “Find us a way out of here.” They set their sights upon the Rift they had seen in Adamant’s courtyard. It’s a haze to him, a fog, as they work their way through the Fade. Vaguely he thinks they are following a spirit. He thinks a demon says his name. He does not listen. He can feel the way his insides twist, the pin pricks that needle underneath his skin. Acid mixes with metal, blood on his tongue. Battles are a mindless rhythm, easier for him than even walking. Even then, he might be grateful for a demon’s claws upon his bones. At least then his death would be swift.

The spirit banishes the demon briefly, but only briefly. Stroud is taking him by the arm, dragging him towards the Rift. The Inquisitor is at his other side, wrapping an arm over their shoulders, helping haul Fenris away. The demon descends, bars their path. They drop Fenris to his knees as they draw their swords. His fingers wrap around the red on his wrist. One last touch. When he would reach for her, hand upon her face, she would lean into his touch. Eyes closed, smile content. He undoes the knot, raises the silk to his lips.

He reaches for the Inquisitor. “Give this to Hawke,” he tells them. The Inquisitor looks at them for one long, silent moment, before nodding. Taking the silk. Fenris uses his sword to help push himself up from the ground. He faces down the demon, charges forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Inquisitor and Stroud reach the Rift. He closes his eyes. There she waits, smiling for him as always.

* * *

They come with a letter. They bring it to her doorstep. They come with a package. An ornately carved wooden box. She doesn’t believe the words when she reads them. Only when she sits at the table, opens the box, finds the red inside. Picking it up with trembling fingers, a shaking hand, doubling over as she presses it against her face. The baby is only a few days away. She buries an empty coffin, stands on an empty grave, a tombstone beside three others.

She stands there until her feet ache, every inch of her tired. Only then does she go to her knees, press her forehead against cold stone. “How am I supposed to do this without you?” She asks, red wrapped around her wrist. “How am I supposed to do this alone?”


	140. Ice (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I'm not sure if you're taking new prompt ideas, but I was just thinking that it'd be really cute to read a one-shot with FenHawke where Hawke is ice-skating and Fenris finds her and he tells her she's ridiculous for being out in the cold and on a large body of frozen water, and it turns into Hawke getting Fenris out there with her and while he's usually graceful and she's clumsy, they are opposites on the ice :D could end with a fall that leads to laughing that leads to a kiss... or maybe a fall that leads to laughing that leads to them realizing how close they are and how easy it would be for Fenris or Hawke to close that distance... idk... just a thought that went through my brain :P"

“This is not what I had in mind,” Fenris says. Her laughter rings clear as she sits on the bench beside him, tying up the laces of her skates.

“Then you shouldn’t have let me choose where we were going,” she tells him as she stands. She moves to stand in front of him, grinning as she leans over. She kisses a pink-tipped nose, adjusts the scarf around his neck. “I promise it’ll be fun.” He is _freezing_. It’s Hawke who bought him the matching hat, the scarf, the gloves. He’s wearing a sweater under coat and the socks do nothing to save his toes from the cold.

She smiles as she stretches out her hands, helps him to his feet. “I can’t believe you’ve never gone skating before,” she says as she keeps his hands tight in hers, skates backwards with ease. She pulls him along as she goes, one stuttering step after the other. She’s looking at him while he’s looking down, at the snow dusted ice and the cracks that seem so much larger than they actually are. She gives him a gentle tug, and he steps forward.

“You push off with your skates, you don’t actually walk,” she says. Fenris gives her a disgruntled grunt but does as she says and pushes off. Hawke laughs as she catches him in her arms when he falls forward. “You’ll get the hang of it.” Out of the corner of his eye he can see a parent doing the same thing with their child and sighs. Couples skate with ease, hand in hand, smiling at each other. She pulls herself closer to him, her hands over his elbows and his hands on her arms.

She hums as she skates backwards and he does his best to imitate her every move. He’s still looking down while she’s watching the fog of his breath, rosy cheeks. That determined line showing up between his brows as he concentrates. She smiles at the tips of his ears hidden underneath his hat, the stray strands of white hair that escape it. She pulls longer strides and he glances up at her in a panic at the sudden change in tempo.

“Hawke, wait – I,” Fenris says in the midst of tripping forward, the front of his skate catching on the ice, colliding into her and taking her down with him. After an _oof_ she’s got her arms wrapped around him, hugging him tight. “Are you hurt? I’m sorry-” Palms flat against the ice, he pushes himself up to see Hawke smiling brightly beneath him, laughing brightly.

“I deserved that,” she says, propping herself up on elbows. “And I’m fine, I promise.” It’s a repeat of the bench – Hawke stands with ease, helps Fenris do the same on wobbling skates. She wraps her arms around his waist, hugs him tightly. Brushing her nose against his, giving him a kiss. They make their way slowly to the stands. Fenris sits at a picnic table while Hawke skates to buy them hot chocolate.

She places it in front of him as she moves to sit, one hand on her drink and the other on his thigh. She leans over, rests her head on his shoulders. “This is fun. You’re fun. I think I quite like you,” she says. He smirks, both hands wrapped around his drink. He takes a careful sip, feels a different sort of warmth pool in his core.

“I quite like you as well,” he says. She huffs as she sits upright, takes off her gloves to feel the heat of the drink even better. The ring shines bright on her finger.

“I should think so,” she tells him as she bumps her shoulder against his. He laughs, kisses her cheek.  


	141. Truest (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "for the prompt month thing I would like to see fenris or hawk getting emotional during an intimate moment. Like a bit teary eyed because they are just moved by how much the other loves them. And they still have a hard time believing that they are actually wanted. I'm sure both are used to people just wanting to fuck them, not actually caring about them."

He’s spent too many mornings shivering in the cold dark, hugging arms around himself. He’s spent too many mornings afraid, those few fitful hours of rest meaning he’s been too long in one place. He’s spent too many mornings alone. A chore in waking but still needing to because otherwise his freedom would be meaningless. Today he wakes in warmth, he wakes in comfort, and he wakes with Hawke in his arms. Murmuring in her sleep, nestling her head in the crook of his neck, her breath upon his skin. Her fingers twitch in dreaming upon his shoulder, her hair falls across her face as he shifts. His fingers drift on her skin, gooseflesh following in their wake.

She opens her eyes, long lashes revealing brilliant blue, smiles as she tilts her face up to look at him. “Good morning,” she says, voice still hoarse with sleep. His roof still isn’t fixed. In fact, he likes it that way – able to see the stars at night. Gentle light of morning, shining on her skin. Pink in her cheeks. He’s tucking hair behind her ear, feeling it between his fingers. She is the last thought in his head before sleeping. The first thought upon waking. For three years and a day he thought he had ruined everything. Now she is moving, tilting her face towards his, pressing her lips against his.

She brushes fingers against his cheek. He closes his eyes under her touch, under her kiss. When he opens his eyes again, she is smiling. She plants a smaller kiss after the longer one, her signature, and a promise of more. “Fenris,” she says, running fingers through his hair. He shifts, stretching out over her, elbows pressed against the mattress. She’s still smiling up at him, tracing the shell of his ears. She thought she had lost him forever. She had hoped for so long, but kept her distance. She wraps her legs around his waist, splays her hand over his back.

She feels his shoulder blades underneath her palm, that last remnant of wings long lost, and each bump of his spine. Muscles move as he does, and she can feel the scaring of his markings. Tiny raised things, electric contained within skin. Sighing as she wraps her arms around his neck, pulls him down. His hand runs the length of her thigh, the curve of her hip, her belly, her ribs. Memorizing every inch, every freckle, every birthmark, and every scar. She tastes sweeter than the sweetest wine, softer than silk, rich like darkest chocolate, smoother than a flowers petal.

She holds his face in her hands, rubs her nose against his, breathes out the smallest chuckle. She is laughter and sunshine, the freedom he has been searching for. Last night was the strike of lightning. Quick and hurried, raw and wanting, desperate to have each other, to have what was too long lost. This morning is the long thunder, no less wondrous, but slower, needier, reassurance and adoration. It is the noise given to feeling, it is the way his voice breaks when he says “I am yours.”

His forehead pressed against hers, her breath upon his lips. Feeling her move beneath him, her hips meeting his, her hands moving across his shoulder, down his back. “I love you,” she tells him, and all his movements still. Smiling as they move, Fenris sitting back upon his ankles. Hawke over him, lowering herself down, setting the pace. Wrapping his arms around her, his face against her chest. “I love you.” His eyes squeezing closed, arms holding tighter. “I love you.” Breathing in the scent of her and the scent of lavender, never wanting to let go. “I love you.” He lets go of a shaking breath, feels her kiss the crown of his head. “I love you.”


	142. On a Cliff (Solas x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “Could you please do a Sollavellan for the prompt, “I’ve tried to move on, but no one is you"? And/or Cassandra and inquisitor of choice commiserating over the death of a favorite book character? Thanks!”

He finds her in the rain. It falls in sheets, violent drops on a gentle form. Arm at her side, standing at the edge of that cliff, looking out into the distance. The rain doesn’t touch him. All it takes is the wave of his hand to send it away. The air is still rich with dew, rain dripping from leaves and the earth soft beneath his feet. The barest look over her shoulder, water clinging to her eyelashes. Her hand slips over his as he wraps his arms around her waist, presses a kiss to her neck. She is soaked with it. He remains untouched.

She turns in his arms, her hand on his chest. He raises his hands to her face, and with a gentle brush of his thumbs, wipes away the lines like ink on her face. She closes her eyes under his attentions, allows him to tuck hair behind her ears. He traces the shell of her ear, the line of her jaw. His forehead presses against hers. “Why now?” She asks. “You haven’t come for months now.” His smile isn’t really a smile at all, a sad reflection of her frown.

“You were busy.”

“Chasing you,” she raises her eyes to his. Solas remembers when they used to shine so brightly. The flush innocence of youth before all that which the Inquisition took. Before he stole it away. She’s harder now, all stiff lines and scars, and that shine is now dull, serious, determined. He takes her hand in his. “I must be close.”

“Yes.” There is no point in lying to her. She would have known anyway. The frown grows and her hand slips from his as she turns away. She walks the edge of the cliff, and he can only follow in her footsteps. Her hand is behind her back, a partial imitation of her usual pose. Once there would have been another hand to clasp it. Once there would have been the anchor.

“We’re losing, aren’t we?” She asks. Her voice is distant, pointed in a different direction. He lets the silence roll on and she chuckles under her breath. “Of course we are.” She stops, turns, looks at him for a moment. He stops as well, allows her eyes to roll over him. Behind her back, her hand shakes into a fist. Her lips curl downwards. Her clothes cling to her, still wet even as the sun breaks through clouds and breathes warmth. She seems untouched by everything.

“Have you not found another? Someone – someone to make you happy?” He asks.

“You know I have not. _Vhenan_ ,” she says. A mocking laugh rips from her and she presses a fist against her temple. “How can you ask me that?” She shakes her head, and still the laughter continues. It echoes even as his eyes open, as he wakes miles away from her. His legs are crossed, his hands linked together on his lap. He raises his head, sighs as he leans against the trunk of the tree. His army awaits him. He knows where she is.

He hopes he won’t see her on the battlefield.


	143. A Dance (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "i like the idea of a nice night at the hanged man, one where they're all celebrating something, or they're just cheery in general. and it's from the perspective of varric or something. and he just watches as a bard starts playing music, and fenris is tapping his foot along. hawke notices and starts asking to dance. and it's a really cute dance scene after she gets him laughing, encouraging him on the dance floor. like the harry potter and the deathly hallows scene where harry and hermione are just having fun dancing in the tent. and varric just watching fenris really relax and shaking his head because they're in too deep now"

Perhaps they’re not supposed to notice the frayed edges of the sweater. The way the buttons at his shoulder aren’t quite lined up. One sleeve might be longer than the other, but Varric can’t really tell since Fenris is keeping his hands in his lap. It’s definitely Hawke made through and through. Hawke, for her part, has her elbows on the table, laughing as she leans towards Fenris. Shoulder to shoulder, he turns to look at her. The smile spreads across his face and his ears turn red as he listens to her. He chuckles under his breath much to her delight. His eyes never leave her face.

Varric shakes his head as he watches them, this shy back and forth. They had been like this even before the Deep Roads, but the weeks spent down there only made it worse. How many times had he woken up to find them head to head whispering by the fire? The elf was all dry humor and seriousness with the others, but with her – well, Varric certainly wasn’t the one making him do that odd chuckle that’s maybe a snort, or getting him to blush, or the one making him sweaters.

Fenris’s hands creep up onto the table, wrap around the mug on the table. Varric’s eyebrows shoot up when the bard changes songs and there is Fenris, tapping along to the rhythm. He’s not the only one who sees it. Hawke does a double take and the grin she gives him is full of mischief. Fenris looks up, startled, when she reaches out, takes his hand in hers. She’s pulling him to his feet, dragging him to the floor. Isabela cups her hands together, hollers out encouragement. Anders turns his head to take a momentary look, then shakes his head and goes back to talking with Aveline. Merrill is cheering just as much as Isabela and Varric can feel the embarrassment rolling off Fenris in waves.

Hawke is smiling as she takes his face in her hands, forces him to look at only her. She says something to him, and soon enough, he’s nodding. The back of his neck is practically scarlet. She directs one of his hands to her waist. She takes the other in hers, places her other on his shoulder. He’s looking down at his feet, mumbling something to her. She throws back her head and laughs as she begins to turn them. She’s counting steps, gently kicking his feet in the direction she wants him to go.

They’re lost in the crowd of people, the others dancing around them. Isabela is talking to Merrill now, ordering more drinks. Only Varric keeps watching, the soft words exchanged between them. Eventually the stiff line of Fenris’s shoulders ease. He relaxes into it, begins to lead Hawke instead of her leading him. He’s still looking at his feet so only Varric sees the way Hawke bites her bottom lip, the way her brows knit together, the soft way she looks at him.

Perhaps they’re not supposed to notice the frayed edges of the sweater. Perhaps they’re not supposed to notice the way they smile at each other. The way Fenris’s hand tightens around hers, keeps the other easy at her waist. The way he closes the distance between them, chuckling as his forehead touches against hers. Perhaps they’re not supposed to notice the way Hawke’s cheeks go rosy red, the way her sure footsteps stumble for a moment. Laughing as Fenris catches her, the both of them hugging each other as they sway.

Perhaps they’re not supposed to notice, but Maker’s breath did they make it obvious. Varric laughs into his mug of ale, takes a sip.


	144. A Bath (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "FenHawke taking a bath together"

There’s a plant on her windowsill. A small green thing, the flowers only just beginning to grow. The window is open slightly, letting in a cool breeze. It moves the sheer fabric of the curtains, shines brightly on the plant. She sits up in the tub, pulls back wet hair with her hands, rubs her eyes. Her lotions and the like litter the floor beside the tub, different vials and delicate glass. They all smell the same. She knows the plant is lavender, the same scent. She crosses her arms over the tub, leans against it. Hawke smiles as her chin rests on her wrists.

There are birds chirping outside. Distantly, she can hear the buzz of the streets below. She hears better the opening of her estate door and his voice calling upwards. “Hawke?”

“Up here,” she yells back, leans back into the tub. It takes only the barest flick of her hand to heat the water up again, a delicate warmth. She sinks down into it, closes her eyes as the water laps around her chest. Quiet footsteps up the stairs. The gentle pad of his feet against wood as they make their way to the door. The slow creak as it opens, and he leans in the doorframe. She pulls her legs to her chest, wraps her arms around them. She rests her head on her knees, smiles at him.

“How did it go?” She asks. He shrugs his shoulders.

“No trouble. One sight of us and they ran. Aveline was quite pleased. The guards she had placed were waiting for them,” he tells her. Hawke breathes out laughter, reaches out a hand towards him. He closes the distance between them, his fingertips touching hers. He lets his hand be wrapped up hers as he kneels down. She shifts, legs stretching, toes touching the other end of the tub.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” she says. Fenris watches a water drop fall from her temple to her brow, gently reaches out and wipes it away. “Did you buy that?” Her other arm raises out of the water to point at the plant. The tips of his ears turn red immediately.

“If you do not like it, I can –”

“Fenris,” she says, “I love it.” It’s a sign, a comfort, reassurance that he wants to be here. It’s the same as the sword oil that sits on the counter. The extra clothes in the closet. The vase filled with daffodils on the kitchen table. He’s made his choice and his choice is to be with her. Seeing his things slowly appear in the estate fills her chest with a warmth the water cannot match.

She beams a smile at him as she opens her arms, “join me.” The smile quirks around the edges of his lips. She laughs as he stands quickly, bracing himself on the tub, and dives in without hesitation. Water spills over the edges, pools around those bottles. She’s still laughing as he kisses the curve of her jaw, the tip of her nose. His clothes stick to him, wet as much as he is.

She reaches up, takes his face in her hands, and pulls him closer. He lets his weight fall carefully over her, his arms wrapping around her. “Welcome home,” she says, tilting her face and closing her eyes. There’s the faintest taste of apples on his tongue. After the long kiss, he plants a smaller one. And then, to her forehead. Making sure she knows every bit of her is loved.


	145. Favorite (Zevran x F!Warden & Fenris x F!Hawke & Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Hello dear! How about: any pairing, their favorite things about one another. Bonus points for extra pairings."

She keeps her hands just above the wheat. The very top of the grain brushes against her palms as she walks, leading them through the field. Bow slung over her shoulder, quiver at her hip. The sun has begun to set, the last of its arms desperately clinging to the world. Muted blue and softer yellow, the edges of pink and purple. A warmth that lingers on cold, a breeze that carries tomorrow. Her hair drifts around her face, and she looks over her shoulder. Perhaps just to check if they’re still following her. Her gaze lingers on him. He catches her eye and she smiles, turns back towards that horizon.

The sun still lingers on her skin after dusk as they lie in their tent together. She reaches upwards, hand threading through hair, her touch like fire at the back of his neck. It takes only the lightest pull to bring him towards her, his forehead touching hers. She traces his tattoo with her other hand, and he closes his eyes at the feeling. “My Warden,” he murmurs and her thumb brushes over his lips. Her kiss is as sweet as the softly spoken words she reserves for him.

He knows the words that bubble and boil, scald her enemies. He guards her back and they do not see the way the back of her neck flushes red with anger, with fierce determination. They look and they see the Warden, straight back and shoulders square. He knows her fragile in his arms, back bent and shoulders hunched as she clings to him. They see her unshakable, unafraid. He knows all the nights she spends without sleep, talking quietly to him about dreams with dragons and screaming demons. He knows her strengths. He knows her weaknesses. He minds them for her so she doesn’t have to.

“Tabris,” he says before he kisses her. He speaks like her name is a prayer, sacred on his lips. She keeps her hand light in his hair, moving slowly, the other hand drifting over his shoulders. Slipping down his back, feeling all the scarring under her fingertips. This handsome man had come laughing to her bed and she had unearthed, unburied, someone else. She strips away the Crow, finds Zevran underneath. His gaze is a storm, lashing wind and rolling sea, lightning that splits the sky. His touch is shelter, the softest rain. He tells her he would storm the Dark City to be with her. She would do much more.

* * *

Her staff is a line across her shoulders, hands wrapped tight around it. The others scold her for her brazenness. She only grins at them. She’s humming something under her breath, tapping the rhythm against the wood with her fingers. Aveline ducks out the way with a scowl as Hawke swings around to face him. “Are you coming for dinner?” She asks, cheeks pink and eyes bright. How could he say anything but yes? He nods, the smallest smile at the edges of his lips. Her grin flashes again. Aveline barks out frustration when Hawke spins around again, nails her in the head with her staff. Fenris watches as she weaves out of Aveline’s grasp, laughing as she runs away.

The staff rests at the door of her home, armor replaced with something softer. Her hands on his shoulders, pushing him down onto the couch. She settles into his lap, knees on either side of him, toes dangling off the couch. Wrapping her arms around his neck, sinking into his embrace. Playing with the longer strands of hair at the back of his neck, her breath warm at his ear. “Fenris,” she says, and he closes his eyes. Hands at her waist, moving upwards, feeling every bump of her spine. Wrapping an arm around her, twisting them so she lies beneath him.

They don’t quite fit, legs hanging over the edge, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She stays still as he kneels over her. She watches him quietly as he undoes the buttons on her robe one by one. Warm hands splaying over her chest, running down her belly and over the scar. Tracing the curve of her hip and her waist, tracking over her ribs. The line of her collarbone and the softness of her neck. She leans into his touch when his hand finds her face. She closes her eyes as he brushes thumbs over her cheekbones.

A strange thing it is, to be loved. It is permission unspoken, a chain freely given. He slowly lowers himself, allows himself to be tangled up in her. She brushes a space free of hair, presses lips to his forehead. Humming that same tune as she runs a hand through his hair, fingertips circling over his shoulder. He finds the rhythm in the beat of her heart, such a steady and unending thing. He matches his breathing with hers, closes his eyes.

* * *

He sits cross-legged on Solas’s desk. His hands wrapped around his ankles, perked up like a curious child. Solas is leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, answering whatever questions cross his mind. They’re questions Dorian can’t quite hear from where he stands. Elbows on the bannister, a book loosely in his hands, and only half paying attention to the words on the page. He’d rather listen to the soft tone of Lavellan’s voice, the curiosity contained within. Watching him out of the corner of his eye as he sways to think of the next question.

He tilts his head back, biting his bottom lip as he thinks, and catches sight of Dorian. Dorian’s eyes quickly drop to the page and he clears his throat, pretends he doesn’t see Lavellan grinning up at him. Pretends he doesn’t see him uncurl himself from his perch, waving at Solas as he heads for the stairs of the library. Chooses not to turn his head when he appears at the top of the stairs, leans against the bannister beside him. A hand appears at the top of the book, steals it from his hands.

Lavellan casts a cursory glance at the words before his nose wrinkles and he throws it in the direction of Dorian’s nook. He closes the distance between them, takes Dorian’s hand in his. There’s no doubt in the way he holds him, no hesitation in the way his other hand reaches out to him. Turning his chin to face him, smirking as he leans in for a kiss. A lingering fear rankles in Dorian’s chest, a habit so hard to get rid of, the panic that someone else might see. Lavellan only holds him tighter, kisses harder.

“Are you jealous?” Lavellan asks, his face still so close, his breath warm over the kiss he has planted. There’s mischief in his eye, and the smirk lingers on his lips. An arm drapes itself over Dorian’s shoulder as he pulls himself closer, leaning into him.

“That you’re asking Solas questions about ancient research and not your incredibly well read and handsome lover? Never.” Lavellan throws back his head and laughs, and it’s hard not to be swept up in it. Wrapping arms around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling him shake in his arms. He’s still smiling as he presses his forehead against Dorian’s. He’s wiping away that old fear, smoothing out the panic. There’s only pride to have the Inquisitor on his arm, Lavellan on his lips.


	146. Wanting (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Reacting to the other crying for Fenris and Garrett"

He steps inside the doorway, drops the bag to the floor. He looks around the room, runs a hand through his hair. The window is fogged, dirty, barely anything more than ornamental. The floorboards creak underneath his weight as he walks to the bed. It sags beneath him when he sits, its age showing in a mere touch. Elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He hears the door shut, hears another set of bags dropping. Fenris leans his sword against the wall, makes his way towards the bed.

He kneels down before him, puts a hand on his arm. “Hawke,” he says, “What is it?”

“This isn’t – this isn’t what I wanted for you,” he mumbles. It was Sebastian who gave them the warning first. Whispers in the Chantry, rumors of an exalted march on Kirkwall. They had spent long nights by a burning candle discussing what exactly they could do. Aveline with dark circles under her eyes wondering how long she could keep pushing her guard to the brink. Varric wondering what the remaining Templars might do. They knew what Meredith was, what she had done – would they help defend Kirkwall or would they be the ones who break it from the inside out? Merrill worrying about distributing food in the alienage, the state of their already crumbling houses.

Too many of those nights, the same talk over and over again. Fenris had come to bed one night to find Hawke staring into the fire. Turning to him with haunted eyes. “I need to leave,” he had said. “The Chantry wants me.” Looking back at the fire, the embers churning and ashes falling. “You don’t have to come.” As if he would let him go alone. As if he would let him go without him.

“Garrett,” Fenris tugs at his arms, pulls them away from his face. Hawke lets them drop, doesn’t meet Fenris’s eyes. His are red-rimmed and wet, his mouth curling downwards with something like guilt.

“I never wanted you to have to run. Not again. I wanted –” Hawke shakes his head. Fenris knows. He wanted the days spent in the garden, hands and knees in the dirt. Side by side talking quietly, pulling weeds as Mr. Barks slept in the sun. The afternoons of shared baths, of reading aloud to Hawke while he cooked dinner. The evenings spent side by side while Fenris reads and drinks wine, with Hawke’s head in his lap. The nights spent in bed together, skin pressed against skin, warm breath and warmer words.

“I wanted to give you,” Hawke reaches out, brushes a hand against Fenris’s face, thumbs over cheekbones, “ _everything_.” Fenris’s hand slips over his. Holding it still while he turns his face, presses a kiss to his palm.

“I already have you,” he tells him.


	147. Lullabies (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Head scratches for Lavellan and Cullen"

He only vaguely remembers being lured away from his desk. Her hands in his, tugging him along the empty Skyhold corridors. Candles unlit or burned low, the main hall bright withy brilliant moonlight. Her footsteps her light, his less so. Up the stairs and to her room. She had the balcony door open, a cool breeze sweeping through the room. She had pushed off his cloak, helped him with his armor. She had guided him to the bed, opening up the sheets for him, inviting him in.

He remembers dreaming. Back in the Circle, wearing armor that no longer suits him. It’s all sharp edges, tighter than he remembers, stabbing into him. Squeezing him until he can barely breathe. He wanders through the tower, a hand against the wall to keep him steady. When he pulls his hand back he finds it blood soaked. He’s wading in it, blood up to his ankles, masks of the faces of friends he once knew floating by.

He runs but he finds the stairs pour with it, no matter how high he goes. At the very top he sees it. The pile of bodies, all those he’s failed. Mages and Templar alike, friend and ward, lifeless and cold. Before them stands a man, his sword unsheathed. He turns and Cullen is looking at himself. A demon wearing a smile, spatter on his face and on his breastplate. He runs. Back down the staircase, the laughter following after him.

He pounds against the doors of the tower. They were supposed to be locked for only the mages, why were they locked for him? He beats his fists against wood and the laughter grows ever closer. Ready to sink into despair, he presses his forehead against the door. “Please, please,” he begs. Only then does it open. A hand with a slice of green in the opening, pulling him through. Brilliant white overtakes his vision, leaves him blinded, and pushes him into waking.

“-haps later.” She’s whispering. Someone murmurs a reply, closes the door behind them when they leave.

“ _Tel’enfenim, da’len, irassal ma ghilas. Ma garas mir renan, ara ma’athlan vhenas_ ,” she’s singing softly under her breath. She’s leaning against the bedframe, legs crossed with his head in her lap. Tracing the shell of his ear, running her hands through his hair. He doesn’t want to open his eyes. “ _Ara ma’athlan vhenas_.” He is content to rest in her embrace, halfway between waking and dreaming, listening to her sing.

Her hands are warm. Her touch is kind. “ _Ar lath ma vhenan_ ,” she hums softly. She leans over and he feels her hair tickle against his face. She kisses his forehead. “Cullen.” He opens his eyes slowly and the smile comes easily. He reaches up, touches her cheek.


	148. Surest (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "kiss prompt meme: 11: when one stops the kiss to whisper “I’m sorry, are you sure you-” and they answer by kissing them more"

Under his touch, he comes undone. That long hair of his, usually tied back, is splayed over the pillow. A dark halo, with braids that flitter through and through. Face flushed, cheeks red underneath branches of _vallaslin_. Sweat beads his brow, eyes half-lidded, biting on a knuckle. Facing turning, mouth open, reaching upwards. Hands on Dorian’s shoulder, a soft caress, biting his bottom lip as he stifles the moan. “Mhmm- _mm_! Ah – Dorian,” squeezing his eyes closed.

Dorian bends forward, keeping one hand tight on his hip, the other pressing into the mattress as he kisses the curve of Lavellan’s jaw. He tilts his face back, allows Dorian to pepper his neck in affection. Dorian leans back once again and the hand that was once on the mattress now flattens against Lavellan’s chest. The elf opens his eyes slowly, wraps his hands around Dorian’s wrist. One stays, the other flutters up his arm, rests on his shoulder.

“Dorian,” he says as they lock eyes, “I love you.” For a moment, Dorian’s hands bruise tightly against him. Then all at once, his movements still. Still breathing heavy, chest heaving, staring at Lavellan with something like panic. The hand that was so tightly locked to Lavellan’s hip falls away and he wrenches the other from his grasp. He pushes himself away, moves from the bed. As he walks towards the window, he runs a shaking hand through his hair.

Lavellan pushes himself up, those long locks of his coming to rest against his back, sits on the bed and watches him go. “Dorian?” He doesn’t need to look to know the hurt that’s on Lavellan’s face. “Dorian.” Dorian crosses his arms, one hand over his mouth. The bed creaks when Lavellan moves. He stands but keeps his distance. “Dorian, please say something.” There’s a plea in his voice, hanging on every word.

Dorian looks over his shoulder, turns slowly. Lavellan still has his arms wrapped around himself, shoulders hunched and there’s a worrisome knot between his brows. The hand over his mouth slowly lowers as he speaks. “You love me?” The words are hoarse, sounding distant, even to himself.

“Yes,” Lavellan says, “is that so wrong? Should I not?” The sentence breaks in his mouth, as though not loving him is a state of being he cannot bear.

“I –” Dorian casts his gaze to the floor. Lavellan closes the distance between them, reaches out carefully. He touches him like he might break, the barest feeling of fingertips against skin. Over his arms, his shoulders, cupping his face in his hands. Brushing thumbs over his cheekbones, turning his chin to face him.

“Dorian,” he murmurs, nose touching against his, breath warm on his lips, “I love you.” A hand at the nape of his neck, fingers playing the loose hair that curls there. Dorian folds into the kiss, moans into his mouth. Crossed arms that slowly uncurl, reaching for Lavellan’s waist, pulling him closer. Helpless to him, opening his mouth, touching tongue against tongue. Hands that cling to the other, unrelenting and unwilling to let go.

A line of spit links their mouths when Dorian pulls back, “I’m sorry, are you sure you-” Lavellan gives him a single look before surging forward, crushing his lips against his. Holding his face tightly, ensuring Dorian can’t escape. He’s breathless when Lavellan finally pulls away, gasping for air.

“Of course I’m sure,” he says. Dorian’s laugh isn’t really a laugh as they knock foreheads together. There’s a puzzle in his brow, some mystery in his head he’s trying to unravel.

“No one’s ever said that to me before. Not like _that_ , you know. Certainly not from anyone I wanted to hear say it,” he says. Lavellan smiles softly. Caressing his face, kissing one cheek and then the other. “I love you too.” Closing their eyes, still holding each other tightly.


	149. Socks (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Fenhawke: how do they deal with arguments, because every couple has their fights. No mage/templar issue please, it's so overdone. Do something more domestic like dishes or accidentally breaking something."

She’s lying on the bed, on her stomach, feet in the air. There’s a book on her pillow, and she’s humming as she turns the page. She rubs her feet together, and she’s already starting to push off one sock with her toes. Fenris shakes his head, grabs her ankles. Hawke twists herself around, caught in his grasp, and gives him a wide smile. “You’re home!”

“Thirteen,” he says. Hawke cocks her head, wears a playful frown.

“Sorry?”

“On my way to the bedroom, I found thirteen socks. Three in the front hallway. Two in the kitchen. One on the _table_. Where we _eat_. And then I –”

“I get it,” she says. He lets go of her ankles and she turns to sit up on the bed. She pulls off her socks, tosses them into the pile of laundry in the corner. “Better?” Fenris crosses his arms. He doesn’t share her smile. “Not better.”

“This is not the first time we have discussed it. I have tried to ignore it. I am trying to keep the house tidy but I am not a maid.”

“You lived in a mansion with rotting corpses for how long and you’re complaining about socks?”

“That was different and you know it.”

“Yeah,” she says, “I know. But it’s just a couple socks. It’s not a big deal.”

“Did I mention the socks I found on the kitchen table where we put our food? The socks you spend all day wearing in those boots of yours. From whatever you track in from Darktown to the Wounded Coast - it is disgusting.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll keep them off the table.”

“It is not just the table. You leave them everywhere. It is difficult to be – I am trying,” he says, clenching his fists together. “I am trying to make this our home.”

“Oh,” she says, “Fenris. I’m sorry. I’ll – I’ll do better. I promise.”

* * *

He relaxes on the sofa, a glass of wine in one hand, a book in the other. She’s curled up on the couch with a book of her own. One of her legs is up, the other resting on her knee. One finger is inside her sock, pulling it off. Fenris watches as it lowers to the floor. Watches as she picks up and puts it in the pocket of her robe. He smiles, takes a sip of wine, turns the page.


	150. After (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "‘I can’t believe we surivived’ FenHawke "

There are so many people on the streets. Bags on their shoulders, fear on their faces, panic in their voices. All clamoring to leave Kirkwall, crowding and shoving, desperate to reach the last few ships. There’s debris in the streets, and fires still burn. All these people heading for the docks. Two head in the other direction. Hawke has her head on his shoulder, and Fenris keeps his hand tight around hers. Guards are yelling for calm, trying to direct the flow of people. He keeps her close at his side, uses himself as a shield to push through the crowd.

It’s quieter in Hightown. Everyone has already fled. More than a few buildings have been flattened by the Chantry’s rubble. The estate is miraculously mostly untouched, save for a few new scars. Hawke slips the key into the lock, opens the door. Orana, Bodahn and Sandal are gone. Collected by a few guards on Aveline’s orders, on the first ship out of Kirkwall. Their pockets filled with coin Hawke left for them and a hope they’d find somewhere safe.

In the silence, Hawke’s staff clatters to the floor. Fenris’s sword soon joins it. Shedding armor on the way up the stairs, blood stained fingers on metal clasps. Bones sore, muscles weary, they lean against each other. Standing close together as Fenris wipes her arms with a wet cloth. Hawke is doing the same for him, rubbing the spatter from his cheeks. They sink into bed together, every inch of them raw, exhausted, bruised and tender.

They lie side by side and face each other. Hands reaching out, fingers against fingers, closing distance until forehead touches forehead. Hawke closes her eyes as Fenris brushes his lips against hers. Something so achingly quiet and soft that it makes her heart hurt. His hand moves, touching her face, thumbs over cheekbones. Fingers in her hair, holding her tightly. She can feel his hand trembling ever so slightly.

Clinging to each other, he reaches for another kiss. Her hands on his back, feeling the curve of his shoulder blades. Each bump of his spine, the roll of his muscles as he moves to hold her better. Body pressed against body, no space lost between them. Restless movements as they try and find the hurt in the other, make it better. He pulls her leg over his, holding onto her thigh. Hip against hip, Hawke’s hand at the nape of his neck, breathing into each other.

It’s reassurance, it’s calm in knowing the other is safe and in reach. Taking their time with it, slow love and slower kisses. Tracing every inch of the other, memorizing the feel of them under their fingertips. Her name is on his lips, his name in every breath she takes. Kirkwall burns but they have each other. They fall asleep that way, so wound together, unable to be apart.


	151. Seasons (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "21. Author’s choice! 21. Author’s choice! 21. Author’s choice!" Fenris and Hawke  
> Fenris and Hawke as Winter and Spring

He pulls her up from deeply rooted vines, from leaves and moss, a grave of rock and earth. She is lavender and petals, warmth as her hand wraps around his. All sculpted and crafted, warm clay and bright stone. Eyes slowly open as he lifts her from where she lays. There are buds beginning to green on the tree that marks her burial. She steps towards him and flowers bloom in her footprints. She keeps her hand in his, holds him tightly. Her other hand on his neck, his nape, warm breath on his cheek as she embraces him.

She smells of the earth after rain, all lushness and dew. “I’ve missed you,” she says with birds in her voice. Running a hand through his hair, softly chuckling as she tweaks his ear between her fingers, presses her forehead against his. There is frost in his touch but she doesn’t seem to mind. His arms wrap around her waist as her arms drape over his shoulders. Leaning her weight against him, laughing as he peppers her face in kisses.

“I missed you as well,” he tells her. Cupping his face in her hands, smiling as she kisses him gently. She tastes of berries and low herbs, while he is the coolness of mint, the bite of ice. She plants her love deeply, and he feels it take shape inside him. Spring allows winter to lead, and she wraps her arms around his chest, puts her chin on his shoulder. Laughing as they stumble together, errant foot against clumsy steps. He misses her secret smile as she presses her head against his back.

They walk the earth together. She melts away his snow, comes bearing the seeds of a new earth. She kneels down, kneads her hand into dirt. Tulips spring forth at her command. Hidden mushrooms in the shadow of a tree. All the deep things begin to awaken, brought to life by her presence. Fingertips on icicles, warm water that drips down her arm. He presses his hand against the drops, and the ice sparkles on her skin. She smiles in delight.

He makes it snow for her one last time. They sit underneath moonlight, her head on his shoulder. It falls softly, sparkling in the light. It melts when it finds grass, green leaves. Hand in hand, they need no words. Not as her fingers trace circles over the back of his hand. Not as he kisses the crown of her head. In the morning light, birds upon branch, she leads him to a grave of his own.

It is the lake by her tree, the water that nourishes earth, both feeding upon the other. She wades in with him, wraps her arms around him. “I don’t want you to go,” she says.

“I have to,” he tells her and yet he does not let go. Tracing the lines of her back, every bump and ridge, running his fingers through her hair. She is so bright and he is so tired. He can barely keep his eyes open. They kneel down together, and he rests his head upon her lap. She tucks white locks of hair behind his ears, brushes her hand over his cheek. He closes his eyes as she leans over him, kisses him softly.

“I’ll be here when you wake,” she says.

* * *

Fall takes him by the arm, hauls him to his feet. Water turns to ice, snow on his skin, and there’s frost under his feet. He stops by the tree. She rests underneath, sleeping peacefully, a smile on her face. He’ll let her sleep just a little longer. 


	152. Okay (Carver & F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "11 Carver and hawk. Give me those deep roads feels." (“You’re going to make it. Just stay awake.”)

He thinks it might be the mushrooms. After weeks of being stuck in the Deep Roads, they had run out of supplies. It was Merrill who found them, presenting them proudly. “We can eat these!” She had said. Now his stomach aches and sweat paints his back. It has to be the mushrooms. Carver runs a hand through his hair, looks at Hawke laughing with Varric. He talks with his hands and the wilder his movements, the more Hawke laughs.

Merrill bounces along behind her, hands clasped behind her back, listening to everything Hawke says. It was hard not to look up to her. He remembers the nights when mom and dad would argue. She would lead Carver and Bethany up to the loft. Tucking them into bed, singing them a lullaby. The same one every night, such an old and tired tune. Braiding Bethany’s hair for her. Stealing a wood sword for Carver to practice with.

Their pace is slower as the days go on. Their fearless leader is tiring. Eventually Varric charts their course, while Merrill hums beside him. Hawke trails behind Carver. “I don’t feel good,” she tells him in a whisper. “I – one of the darkspawn got me. The wound has been – Carver I think I’ve got the blight.” No.

“It’s those damn mushrooms,” he says without turning around.

“Carver, I’m –” she reaches out, fists a hand in the back of his tunic. He can hear the sound of retching behind him. He doesn’t want to look. She uses him to pull herself forward, stand in front of him. How could he not have noticed sooner? The pale skin, the paler eyes. Veins that wind around her neck. He’s seen it too many times before. At Ostagar, and at Lothering. All of this was supposed to be something they left behind in Ferelden.

“Don’t let me become a darkspawn,” she says, “you have to do it Carver. Please.” _No_. He can see Varric and Merrill standing behind Hawke. She has her hands over her mouth. Varric is leading her away. “Carver.”

“We’ll get you back to the surface and then we can-”

“Carver,” she smiles, “have I ever told you how you make me so proud?” Big sister taking his hand, punching the kids that made Bethany cry. Finding Carver sweets, telling him not to tell mom. Their secret. Her with her staff and him with his sword, practicing together behind the barn. Ruffling his hair, laughing when his voice started to crack. Still finding him sweets.

“Look after mom,” she says. “Sometimes Isabela gets in a bit of trouble so make sure you have coin put away for that. Bring some proper food to Fenris’s place, okay? He can’t just exist off bread and wine. Force Aveline to take a vacation at least once a year. There are some runners in Darktown I’ve been paying to lead the Templars away from Anders’s place. Oh and-”

“They’re going to be okay,” Carver tells her. “They’ll be alright.” His hands tighten on her shoulders. She’s nodding to everything he says, staring at a stain on his tunic. She reaches upwards, touches fingertips against it. Taps her hand against it again and again. She’s still nodding, even as she steps forward, presses her face against his chest. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

“Okay,” she says as he wraps his arms around her. “Okay,” and he’s pressing a kiss to her head. “Okay,” as he finds the knife on her belt. “Okay,” pressing it between her ribs. She doesn’t make a sound when he stabs it upwards. She looks up at him, wide eyed, and brushes a hand against his cheek. He catches her when she falls, legs giving out. He falls with her. Crumples to the ground with her in his arms. Rocking back and forth as she closes her eyes. Brushing hair away from her face. He hums their lullaby.

“Okay,” he says.


	153. Seeing (Cullen x F!Inquisitor) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hesitant Kiss into Breathtaking Kiss – Cullen x Lavellan

She watches as he takes off his gloves. He does it while he speaks, eyes on the map and not on his task. Pulling finger by finger, sliding off his hands. Pairing the two together, placing them on the table. One hand moves to the hilt of his sword while he leans over, pushes a delicately carved figurine in the place he wants it to go. Carved like a lion, a battering ram caught in its jaws. Meant to symbolize the Inquisition’s forces, their soldiers, meant to symbolize Cullen. She smiles when she looks up, at the mane around his neck. A lion indeed.

There’s a quick agreement to his plan before Leliana is taking Josephine’s arm, leading her out of the war room. Cullen sighs as he leans back, rubs his eyes. Lavellan moves around the table, puts a hand against his arm. The smallest attention paid to Leliana and Josephine before his gaze moves to her. A smile rests gently on his lips, and he plants it against her. It’s a hesitant thing, over far too soon, still focused on those departing backs.

She reaches upwards, cups his face in her hands. She drags his attention back to her, easier now as the door shuts behind them. Smile turns to smirk as his hands rest at her waist, pull her towards him. She has no choice but to lean into his embrace, arms winding around his neck. Hands fisting in his mane, holding tightly as a hand slips up her back. His mouth is warm, forceful, his tongue explorative and insistent.

There’s a groan at the back of his throat as he presses against her. He moves swiftly, hands at the back of her thighs, lifting her to sit upon the table. He sweeps away papers and figurines, all crashing to the floor. He tugs her hips towards the edge, and she happily wraps her legs around his waist. She opens her eyes briefly to look at him, caught so in his grasp. There’s a hopeless knot in his brow, his eyes closed as he loses himself to her taste.

His hands begin to wander with one at her back, splaying between her shoulder blades. He holds her steady as the other moves over her belly, rolling his palm over her breast. She wonders if he can feel the way her heart beats, pounding against its cage. His kiss leaves her lips, and he trails a path from her cheek to her jaw, leaves her wanting more.

“Cullen,” she says, eyes closing as she feels his breath warm on her neck. Teeth followed by soothing kisses, relentless in his adoration of her. “Someone could walk in.” His tongue is playful at her earlobe, pulling it between his lips.

“They will leave quickly,” he tells her quietly. “I want to have you, right here. Right now.” He pulls back to rest his forehead gently against hers. “Unless you have any objections.” He holds her gaze with commanding force, and she finds herself unable to look away.

“No sir,” she whispers. The words are barely out of her mouth before he takes another kiss, his lips against hers, tongue invading her mouth, stealing away her breath. She’s gasping when his mouth breaks away, as he gently pushes her to lie back against the table. His hand is moving upwards, at her neck, around her jaw. Two fingers slip into her mouth. He tastes like leather.


	154. Empty (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Please break my heart with an empty kiss? FenHawke

In the rare nights he spends at her estate, she always falls asleep first. They talk until late into the night, smiling over wine and firelight. They curl into each other, and he listens to her breathing slow, even out, feel her dreaming against him. She smells like lavender. Her back is warm against his chest, his arm underneath her neck. The other is wrapped around her waist. He pulls her closer, breathes her in. She murmurs in sleep, and he feels her fingertips light against his arm. Rolling up and down until she finally wraps her hand around his.

Their legs are tangled up together, no space lost between them. He listens to the dying embers in the fireplace, the crickets that haunt the street. He kisses the bare space of her shoulders, the three freckles all in a row. Two weeks and a day since they put Danarius in the ground. There was such a rankling in his soul, an uneasy pacing. With her, he feels only calm. Years and years and years of it and only now does he truly think himself free. On the floor, Hawke’s mabari perks up, growls at the closed door.

At this slightest noise, Hawke stirs. “Go back to sleep,” she murmurs at the dog. She turns over, buries her face in his chest. Throwing an arm around him, curling the other one between them. He feels her breathe out against him, hot on his collarbone. He presses a kiss against the crown of her head. She smells like lavender. His hands splay over her back, pressed between her shoulder blades, against the curve of her spine. Her feet press against his as she wedges her leg between his. Wound and bound once again.

The dog rises to its feet. Still growling, snarling, ears pressed back. Hawke’s eyes flutter open as she rolls over onto her back, rubs the sleep from her eyes. Fenris sits up, feet against floorboards. The door crashes open, and the mabari charges forward. The first Templar finds the dog with his sword. He pins it against the ground, not pausing even as the dog whimpers and whines. Hawke is on her feet instantly, flames around her hands, shouting at the top of her lungs. Fenris is moving forward, lyrium markings burning bright in the darkness.

They smell of magebane. They’re practically soaked in the stuff. They crowd around Hawke, gauntlets biting into skin as they force her to her knees. Someone has their hands in her hair, forcing her head back. Filling her mouth with fouler smelling bane. Someone has their knee in his back. Smashing the hilt of a sword against his temple until he can feel the blood rolling down his face. She smells like lavender. The floor is cold against his cheek. His vision is fading black, watching as they drag her past him.

It’s Sebastian who finds him. Too long had the streets been empty of his friends. Hawke in the mornings in the Chantry, card games with Fenris in the evening. The basket tumbles out of his arms when he sees him. Pinned to the floor, a sword in his thigh and in his palm. “They took Hawke,” he’s saying as Sebastian wrenches him free, “they took Hawke.” Barely coherent, babbling her name, as he picks up the elf in his arms, races to Darktown.

Anders says nothing as he heals him. Fenris catches only bits and pieces of the argument. He recognizes Aveline’s voice, barking over the others. Varric’s quiet but stern rebuttal. Even Sebastian’s voice is rising, a tremor of unease in his tone. Merrill’s quiet whispers, Isabela’s stronger insistence. Fenris struggles to rise, and it takes only Anders’s hand on his chest to keep him in the cot. Wheezing, turning over on his side, retching into the bucket he holds out for him. He can only smell the magebane.

“They poisoned you,” Anders tells him. “We’ll get her back.” He should be going with them. In the end, they are no better than the Templars. They poison him as well, drug the food that’s meant to help him heal. It puts an end to the arguments, to the yelling, to Fenris’s attempts to limp from the bed. He crashes into dreaming, thinks of her smiling. Running his hands through her hair. Her touch on his face. When he wakes, it is not Anders at his bedside.

Varric with his head lowered, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. “Fenris,” he says. The panic rises like bile in his throat from the first word. _Fenris_ , not _Broody_. He pushes himself up, and everything moves with him. Rattling around in his skull, it takes a few moments for the world to right itself. Varric rises with him, allows Fenris to lean on him as his leg is still healing. His ribs are too tight. His heart beats too quickly. He can’t breathe.

A hand fists around the covers of the bed Varric leads him to. Forcing them back and he finds her simply sitting. Quiet, her hands together on her lap. She stares at the floor. Varric steps back as Fenris steps forward. Fingers at her chin, lifting her head to look at him. Pushing back her bangs. A fresh scar, a grotesque burn, newly made on her forehead. Her eyes are dull as they look at him. She smells like lyrium. He drops to his knees before her.

He takes her hands in his, presses a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m sorry,” Varric is saying. “We didn’t make it in time.” Burying his face in her lap, wrapping his arms around her waist. She doesn’t move even as he shakes, his teeth gritted together. The tears spill, roll down his face. Leaning back, reaching upwards, his thumb brushing across her face. Pushing himself upwards, pulling her down to him, and pressing his lips against hers.

She doesn’t react. Her skin his cold. Her gaze is distant. “Hawke,” he says, “Marian, please.” He kisses her again. And again. And again. She is a vase filled with flowers long dead, water soured. She smells like emptiness. She smells like shackles.


	155. Stealing (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "In The Moment Kiss, Breathtaking kiss. (Yes I will take two please. In Fenhawk.)"

She lies on a bed not her own. On her side, hand under her pillow, the other playing with the loose threads of the blanket. It’s the third night in a row she’s turned down Varric’s offer of drinks. _Did you think you mattered, Hawke?_ She sits up in the bed, runs a hand through her hair. She rests her elbow on a raised knee. She reaches out, over the nightstand, and the candle flickers to life underneath her palm. She rolls her hand back forth, lighting the candle and snuffing it out, lighting the candle and snuffing it out. _Did you think anything you ever did mattered?_

Carver was getting anxious, itchy, restless to be back with the Wardens. It had taken so much convincing to get him to leave in the first place. Aveline had practically thrown him over her shoulder. _You couldn’t even save your city._ She chews at her thumb, biting the loose skin. Lit, unlit. She tastes iron, looks at the blood pooling around her nail. Lit, unlit. _How could you expect to strike down a god?_ She’d need to get to Adamant quickly, make sure that those Wardens were safe from Corypheus’s influence. Make sure that they could never fall prey to such a thing again.

Her hands drop to her lap as she crosses her legs, leans against the headboard. The candle stays lit this time. She’d have to write home, and soon – before leaving Skyhold. _Fenris is going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about._ Her hands fist in the blanket around her ankles. She bites at her bottom lip and straightens her back. She’d need to be away from him for longer. She slips from the bed, wraps arms around herself as she begins to pace. _You’re a failure, and your family died knowing it._

She leans against the wall, cold stone at her back, sinks to the floor. Pulling her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs. One foot over the other, making herself as small as possible. Her chin rests in the space between her knees, her fingers pull at her tunic. Almost ten years without having not been without him for more than a day or two. Even after… after – they had done their best to see each other. Awkward and fumbling, but still wanting. Still needing.

That feeling has never left. It’s a void in her chest, an ache where her heart should be. Anxious, itchy, restless to be back at his side. Carver’s letters sit on the desk, still waiting for her reply. She’d have to find more parchment, their fastest runner. Not to where she’s hidden Carver in Antiva, but to Fenris in Kirkwall. She stretches out her legs as far as they’ll go, slumps where she sits, palms against the floor. She can picture his face. His reaction to her letter.

He would have that knot between his brows, the one that tells her he’s thinking. His nose would scrunch together as he makes up his mind. His mouth souring downwards as he finishes it. His ears would twitch in his anger, go flat in sadness. She jumps to her feet at the knock at her door. Panicked and hurried things, “I know you’re not sleeping,” Varric’s muffled voice says, “open up!”

Hawke hurries to the door, undoes the latch, pulls it open. Varric immediately doubles, his hands on his knees, panting as he catches his breath. “Tavern, Hawke. Time to go to the tavern!” Hawke shakes her head.

“I already told you Varric, I’m not in the mood –”

“Not up for debate,” he says as he grabs her hand, tugs her forward. In naught but an old tunic and leggings with hole at the knees, Hawke’s bare feet pad along cold stone. Skyhold wind sweeps around her, unleashes a rash of gooseflesh on her skin. Her breath fogs in the air and she races to keep up with Varric. Only at the door of the tavern does he let go of her hand. With a flourishing sweep, he pushes it open.

It’s what she expects. Loud laughter, people talking over one another, the band in the background. Drink upon drink, spilling on the floor. Brightly lit, warm and cozy. Varric has to practically push her in. “I found her!” He calls out. The tavern goes silent as people look over their shoulders, looking at her. She shrinks under her gaze, and only Varric’s hand on her back keeps her from turning and running.

A chair creaks as it moves backwards, sliding against the floor as he stands. “They didn’t know what room you were in,” Varric says, “I found him wandering the grounds. It’s all the yelling guards that got my attention.” He’s wide-eyed and staring at her, just as she is frozen to the spot she stands. He needs a haircut. Did he buy a new cloak? Where did the cut on his chin come from?

“Fenris,” she says. They both move at the same time. The chair clatters backwards as it falls, pushed away from him, rounding the table, running towards each other with arms outstretched. She practically leaps into him, winding her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. He catches her, hands splayed on her back, spinning her around with him. They have their eyes closed as they cling to each other amongst whoops and yells, the sound of tankards hitting wood, cheering from the crowd.

Fenris squeezes her tightly. “I couldn’t wait,” he whispers to her, “I had to see you.” She sinks back slowly to her feet, her fists still wound in his cloak. Looking at him, she finds all her breath is snatched away. He reaches upwards, wipes the tears from her face as she breaks into a smile, and begins to laugh. Bouncing on her feet, shaking him with her. He’s swept up in the laughter as he cups her face in his hands, plants a messy kiss against her lips. Again and again, noses pressed together, catching laughter in each other’s mouths.

The others are hollering, Sera cupping her hands to shout, “get a room!” Hawke is instantly turning, pulling him along with her as she runs towards the door. She doesn’t need to be told twice. They spill out into the night, the tavern door closing behind them, leaving the fires and people behind. She stumbles in her steps, takes him down with her into a snow bank. Laughing as he pushes himself up, white hair like snowfall around him.

She looks at him, the green that shines. She reaches up with cold fingers, with that fogged breath between them, brushes thumbs against his cheeks. “It’s really you,” she says. He smiles as he leans down, forehead touching against forehead. He settles his weight against her, and she doesn’t even feel the snow. Underneath all those stars he kisses her, steals her breath away for the second time that night.


	156. The Moment (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "In the moment kiss for the kiss meme for any/all of your faves"

There was one tree that stretched high above all the others. Branches that soared, leaves that seemed as clouds. They had painted the trunk of it and its roots a deep red. It soaked into the cracks of the bark, bled into the ground. The moss and the earth tinted to that red, and it seemed a hulking sore which had spawned something so strong. It was a challenge for the young elves, laughing as they climbed. A source of solace for the elders, touching it as they passed it. A deep place, a sacred thing, something so everlasting.

He had his first kiss under that tree. Pressing backs against the trunk, waiting for the rain to pass. Hands clasped together, soaked to the bone, breathing heavy from their running. Laughing and laughing until the silence. Looking at one another, hands still locked tightly. Until the lightning snapped and thunder broke and they broke with it. A bumbling thing, full of awkward hands and clumsy mouths. Forgetting how to breathe, not knowing what to do with their noses. He had his second kiss under that tree. And his third, and his fourth.

In the summer that Ryfon died, the tree died with him. It festered from within, a blackened blight, and the leaves fell one by one. Its insides sickened, turned to paste, and its branches cracked and fell. In the summer that Ryfon died, Mahanon watched both him and the tree waste away. Slowly die, turn into something he couldn’t recognize. In the summer that Ryfon died, Mahanon volunteered to go to humanity’s conclave.

Adamant reminds him of that tree. Stone upon stone, branch upon branch, reaching up high. Built into a cliff, as much part of the earth as the hill itself. Old and older, a thing of ancient beauty. Sand sweeps around his feet, brushed gently by the cold night wind. In the stars and in the quiet he shivers, wraps the blanket around himself even tighter. The Wardens were the plague. The wasting sickness planted by Corypheus. The Inquisition would be the axe. Cutting the plague down before it spreads.

There’s lightning on the wind. It brings no rain, only distant thunder. The soldiers are beginning to snuff out their fires, take shelter in the tents. Mahanon stands outside of his, eyes on Adamant. If the Wardens were watching the Inquisition, he couldn’t tell. There is laughter in the camp, quiet talk among friends. He knew what was waiting for them inside. He was asking these men to die for the barest hope of success. Mahanon holds out his hand in front of him. The green seems brighter than usual.

Erimond would be waiting, along with whatever trick Corypheus had taught him. The pain was fresh in his memory. In their last meeting, he had reached out and twisted the anchor. If there had not been the shadow of a rift to pull upon, who knows what might have happened to it. Perhaps it would have forcibly spread, urged forth by the Magister’s magic. Perhaps it would have swallowed him at last. If the dragon came, spewing red death, would he be able to stop it? The Wardens, the demons… “There you are.”

Mahanon is snapped from his thoughts by Dorian rounding the corner of the tent. A smile on his face as he finds him. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” The smile fades the closer he comes, sees the look on Mahanon’s face. “What is it?” He asks, reaching out, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m thinking about tomorrow,” he says, “and all the things that could go wrong.” Dorian’s hand shifts, winding into his, stifling the glowing green.

“You won’t be doing this alone,” he tells him. “I’ll be right beside you the whole time.” In the summer that Ryfon died, Mahanon held his hand. Dried his tears. Wiped the blood from his mouth. Helped him eat, watched him sleep. In the summer that Ryfon died, Mahanon was right beside him the whole time. His hand trembles in Dorian’s grasp. Pulling him forward, crushing his mouth against his. This is not his first kiss. It is his not his second. Not his third, or his fourth. But it is theirs.

Dorian’s hands are at his face, brushing against cheekbones, holding him tightly. Pulling at each other, a need unspoken, desperate for more and more and more. Gasping into his mouth, hands at his hips and on his back. Dorian’s hands winding through his hair. In the shadow of the castle they cling to each other, find some solace between them.

In the summer that they assault Adamant, Mahanon would hold Dorian’s hand. In the summer that they assault Adamant, Mahanon would protect him. In the summer that they assault Adamant, they would live to see the fall.


	157. In Secret (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“Anything involving the secretive brushing of fingertips against inner thighs in public spaces” and “sex with clothes half on/panties still on” for FenHawke"

She leans back against the bar, elbows on the counter. She stretches out, at ease and relaxed, listening to Isabela speak. She laughs at something she says, throwing back her head with the joy of it. When she comes back to, her eyes catch his. Her cheeks redden, her mouth suddenly dry. She licks her lips. His jaw clenches, his hands tightening around the mug. His eyes go from soft and warm to something harder, more intense. It’s the look that strangles around her spine, lightning and thunder all in one.

She watches as he pushes himself up from his chair, away from the table, and head towards the stairs. Halfway up, he pauses, turns slightly to look at her. He gives her a single cocky smirk before he continues. It’s the type of smirk that makes it feel like her insides are falling out, that her heart might beat its way out of her chest. She gives Isabela some sort of half-assed apology before she chases after him. Isabela watches with amusement as Hawke takes the stairs by two.

She’s half-breathless as she reaches the top of the stairs, turning the corner and looking down the hallway. Not seeing him, she walks along, fingertips running along the cracks in the wall. She drifts past a doorway, and a hand wraps around her wrist, pulls her inside. Pulls her into his embrace, an arm wrapping around her waist. Moved so fast she has to lean against him, his leg pressed between her legs. He moves at a dizzying speed, and her back touches wood. His other hand finds her other wrist, raising them above her head, pinning them against the wall as much as the rest of her.

There’s the taste of wine on his lips, in his mouth. Fenris pulls her bottom lip between his teeth, using her surprise to slip his tongue inside. Greedy and playful, warm and wet, breathing into her. He makes sure there’s no space between them. He shifts that leg of his, grinding against where it matters most. She feels one hand take the other wrist, leaving one of his hands free. Fingertips moving down her arm, following a delicate path.

He palms her breast over her tunic, running a thumb over her nipple. There’s a groan at the back of his throat. His other hand is slipping downwards, running over the curves of her. A bruising hold on her hip and Hawke can so clearly feel the hard length of him against her. She reaches between them with eager fingers, finds the lacing of his trousers. Both of them are breathing heavily, their foreheads pressed against each other. He’s looking at her with eyes clouded, a haze of Hawke and all her glory.

He finds the buttons of her pants, undoing them quickly, just as she wraps her hand around the base of his cock. Hard and heavy with lust, her other hand moves to tighten on his shoulder as she begins to stroke. Twisting her wrist, touching the tip of him, pressing against the spot that makes his cock twitch _that_ way. Success at the first bead of pre-cum, smearing it with her thumb. His hand dips inside her underwear, long and lithe fingers running against the line of her cunt.

He teases the entrance of her, the heat that wants, and she sharply inhales when he presses that finger inside of her. Quick little thrusts making her eyes close and her mouth open, his name on her lips. They work at each other quietly and diligently, before Fenris groans, his hand slipping from her. Pulling at the pants around her waist, tugging them just enough off of her ass. After a hurried kiss, he quickly flips her around.

She braces herself against the wall, her forehead leaning against her wrists. He cups her roundness, fingers massaging into her ass. He gives her one sharp slap that makes her gasp and grind back against him. He licks his lips when he sees the slick that’s darkened her underwear, the way her thighs glisten with it. The sight of her red, raw and aching to have his cock buried deep inside of her. “Fuck Hawke,” he says hoarsely, running a finger through wet folds, making her legs shake. He puts that finger in his mouth, greedy for her taste, delicious as always.

Her legs are close enough together for Fenris to push between her thighs with his cock. His hips dip as he grinds against her, wetting himself with her juices. She moans, panting at the tease of having him right there, but not inside. With his foot, he knocks her legs apart.

His hands squeeze against her hips as the head of him finds her entrance. Her cunt squeezes around him, and she breathes out slowly, trying not to make a sound. His teeth find the soft flesh of her shoulder while his fingertips slip underneath the edge of her shirt, moving upwards to take her breast in his hand. He thrusts up deep into her, and her nails scratch against the wall as she moves to make a fist. Closing her eyes, biting her bottom lip, feeling him bury his cock all the way inside her.

His other hand stays at her hip, holds her steady as he finds the right rhythm that makes it hard for her to stand. He makes it even worse when fingers move to her cunt, against her clit, making her unleash a badly muffled groan. Teeth at her neck, kissing the marks he makes as his finger circles the nub, rubs against her, fingertips able to feel himself sliding in and out of her tight heat. Breathing heavily as he kisses the tip of her spine, rolls her nipple between his fingers.

They both pause for a moment when they hear laughter in the corridor. The door is still open. “You must be quiet Hawke,” he murmurs darkly, breath hot against her ear. He pulls out calmly, agonizingly, anguished, that sweet ache as she tries to hold him inside her. Insatiable, craving, voracious as he gradually thrusts back inside her, inch by delicious inch. Slow and deliberate, taking his time with it until they can hear the laughter right outside. Then his hips snap, filling her up all so suddenly, making her stutter with a moan, quickly muffled by biting a knuckle. She can feel his smile against her ear.

The laughter and the voices fade, disappearing into a different room. His thrusts continue in earnest, peppering her shoulder with kisses before he leans back. Holding tightly to her hips as he fucks her, his eyes closed and savoring the feel of her. With anyone else he’d never be bold enough to do this. With anyone else he’d never have imagined himself doing this. But with her, it’s all want, a desperate need to have and to hold, to keep her close.

She reaches back with her arm, trying to find him, and he quickly takes her hand in his. Each thrust makes it that much harder to stay quiet, the back of her hand slick with her drool. There are red teeth marks on her knuckle, more and more adding to it as she gets closer. Burying the keening cry against her flesh. Hand shaking in his, cunt clenching around him in waves, drowning him in her pleasure. He feels his balls tighten as she pulls him along with her, his cock pulsing as he spills his seed inside her.

She slowly straightens herself, turns, and leans her back against the wall. She breathes heavily, her face flushed, her hair disheveled. Her pants are still halfway down her legs. He drops to his knees before her, his tongue against her sensitive clit. Her hand shakes in his hair as he smiles against her. He looks up, those green eyes sharp and dangerous. “You are so beautiful Hawke,” he tells her.


	158. Forgetting (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“I didn’t like you anyway.” & “Get out and don’t come back.” & “You’re everything to me, yet I’m nothing to you.” Angst prompt"

One of the bad days. Pressing her hands against his chest, fists shaking. “I didn’t like you anyway,” a plain sounding lie, ripped from her, voice cracking. He wraps his hands around her wrists, holds her tightly as she struggles, and wears herself ragged. One of the bad days, remembering one of the worst days. “You were leaving so why are you still here? Get out and don’t come back!” He lets her go and she stumbles back, barred and guarded, grief and rage of equal measure on her shoulders.

“What year do you think it is?” He asks her. Her face twists in confusion. She presses hands against her temples, frowning as she thinks.

“We just – you just told me you can’t do this and now, now –” There’s a threat somewhere in the tone of her voice. He steps forward, she takes a step back. Arms back at her side, hands clenched into fists. Fenris reaches out to her, shows his empty palms, and approaches her like a cornered animal. “I don’t know what game you’re playing but it isn’t funny,” she says.

Fenris drops to his knees, takes one of her hands in his. “We’ve been married for twenty years Hawke, don’t you remember?” His thumb brushes over the ring on her finger. She stares at it wordlessly. Sometime this would be enough. Something would click together and she would come back to herself. This is not one of those times. She pulls her hand from his grasp, shaking her head.

“No, no, no,” she says as she paces on the other side of the room. Arms wrapped around herself, hunched over, eyes wide and full of panic. Her hair matches his now. Mousey grey, braided into a bun. A braid he did for her this morning, when she was smiling, when she knew. A kiss on her cheek, reminding her that she needed to have breakfast. Helping her to the kitchen when she forgets where it is. This spell had come on as suddenly as the others. A daydream of the past.

She crumbles into a heap in the corner. He kneels down close to her as she pulls her knees to her chest, wraps her arms around her legs. She hides her face, a stray lock of hair moving downwards with her. “Hawke,” he says gently. He hesitates before putting a hand on her back. There’s only silence. A minute passes and then a minute more until he says “Hawke” once again.

She lifts her head, and there’s a knot in her brow. “Who are you?” She asks. He tries not to let the hurt show on his face.

“A friend,” he tells her.

“Oh,” she says as he helps her to her feet. She smiles at him as she brushes dust off her pants. “Aren’t I lucky to have a friend as handsome as you?” Another stab. He gives her a small smile, links their arms together. Bringing her to sit on the couch. She sits there, clasps her hands in her lap. He sits on the chair across from her, rubs his eyes. She is everything to him. But here, right now, he is nothing to her.

One of the bad days.


	159. Used to It (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“It’s okay. I’m used to it.” Angst prompt"

It’s a warm day. Sweat beads on his back, his shirt soaked in it. He puts his foot on the shovel, presses it in. Muscles sore as he pulls it up, throws dirt over his shoulder. It’s easy to think of nothing as he focuses on the way his bones scream, heavy breath, the ache and the ache and the ache.

They had crossed Bethany’s arms. Tried to make her seem as peaceful as possible, despite the brokenness of her. Carver had taken Leandra away. Anger in her eyes, teeth gritted, tears on her cheeks. _This is your fault._

Lava lined where they left Carver. Sickly and pale, twisting purple lines swirling around his face and neck. They found some empty place, covered him in the rocks. He left the bloody dagger in Carver’s hands. _It’s just you now_.

They burned the dress he put her in. They dressed Leandra in her neat things, best things, a dress she had bought when they moved to Hightown. The Chantry sisters had done their best to hide the scars. _My little boy has become so strong_.

He thought he was done with burying family.

That empty estate, a little less empty with Fenris there. Waking up to him curled so close, an arm thrown over his chest. Smiling as he leans against the counter, a cup of coffee in his hands as he listens to Garrett complain about waking. Scratching at his beard, telling him he likes it. Reading with a glass of wine, his legs tucked underneath him. Weeding the garden together, laughing as Fenris flings the bugs he finds. The shape of him in his arms as they hold each other. /p>

Aveline has her arms crossed as she approaches him. A knot in her brow, the frown on her mouth. “Do you need help?” she asks.

“It’s okay,” Garrett says. Shovel in the earth, slowly carving away the grave. “I’m used to it.”


	160. Danger (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ""for the softer world prompts: 31 and/ or 39 fenhawke :)" I love the way your face lights up when someone says, “It might be dangerous.” (I am glad we are friends.) & There should be a word for a threat that is also a promise. Because that is what I want you to hold me down and do. (I love you)"

She sits in the long grass on the cliff, feet dangling over the edge. She takes off one of her boots, turns it over and taps at the bottom. Sand comes billowing out, blown away by the sea salt wind. She does the same to the other, places them both neatly by her side. Palms in the sand, leaning back. Closing her eyes, tilting her face towards the sun with a smile on her face. She opens one eye when he takes a seat beside her, humming in acknowledgement of his presence.

He sits with his hands clasped in his lap, his back hunched. He looks out over the stretch of water, the sun setting in the distance. Gulls drift in the distance, waves splash against the rocks. Aveline and Varric are arguing by the fire, and she’s poking the fire angrily as she talks. It’s muffled by the distance, muted by his attention on Hawke. She’s kicking her feet back and forth while his stay still, her fingers worming through the sand, savoring the feel of it on her skin. “Are you worried?” She asks.

She dusts off her hands, watching the sand float away. She mimics his position, hands in her lap. She turns towards him, catches his gaze and smiles. “You should not take this so lightly,” he says, “Hadriana will be no easy target.” She reaches out, gently rests her hand upon his thigh. It could be easily pushed away if he so wished. Instead he lets it stay.

“She’s one of the people who hurt you, right?” Silence, a slow nod. “Then we’ll kill her,” Hawke says simply. Fenris’s brows twist in a knot as he shakes his head.

“If she is here, then Danarius is not far behind.” He’s brought trouble to her doorstep. A danger of a sort he cannot speak of, a pain he doesn’t know how to share. She doesn’t balk at this.

“We’ll kill him too.”

“Hawke, you do not understand-” Her hand moves further, on one of his, holding it in her grasp.

“No one will hurt you ever again,” she says. “ _I_ won’t let anyone hurt you.” She is solemn in her promise. Looking at him plainly, their hands still clasped together. The tips of his ears flush red, and he is the one who breaks the gaze first. Back to that distant horizon. He does not move his hand from hers. He turns his hand, and palm touches palm. Fingers wind together.

She has her eyes closed again when he finally looks back at her. The wind has not been kind to her hair, choppy locks falling in every direction. Strands wisp across her face but she does not seem to mind. She did not hesitate when he asked to go to the caverns. A grim line in her mouth, a nod. _We’ll go now_. It twisted something inside him, a greater edge to a feeling that was already growing.

There was gratitude, yes, a relief at knowing he would have her help in this. She did not falter in her words, stumble in her steps. This was something he needed and so it would be done. There was no questioning it with her. Just as she did not question the late nights spent drinking and talking, shared food over the fire of her estate. Her lingering touches, on his shoulder, at his arm. A threat of affection, a promise of something greater. A danger of a different sort, trouble he welcomed.

“Thank you Hawke,” he says. Her eyes flutter open. She relaxes into the smile, setting sun warm on her face. Giving his hand a small squeeze as he smiles back.


	161. Magic (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I didn’t know that was a thing for me” FenHawke

Her hand drifts over his shoulder, holds tightly as she rocks against him. Her eyes are closed, her mouth open. The headboard is cool against his warm back, his feet planted firmly on the bed, her other hand against one of his raised knees. Her toes dig into the bedsheets, she bites at her bottom lip. He loves the way her chest flushes, the same pink as her cheeks. Hands on her thighs, moving up the gentle curve of her hips, her waist, each rib underneath his fingers.

He takes a bouncing breast in hand, and she gasps as he pinches a nipple between his fingers. Her forehead has a light sheen of sweat, stray wisps of raven hair sticking to her. Her eyes flutter open, half-lidded with equal measure of pleasure and desire. His eyes drift downwards, to where she rises and falls, watches his cock disappear inside her eager cunt. Coating him with her wet, sticky on her thighs. His other hand grips her ass, and he gives it an appreciative squeeze.

“Fenris,” she says, voice low and husky, “I want to try something.” They have an unspoken trust on the battlefield. At the other’s back with their weapon of choice. Fire in her palm, metal an extension of his arm. He has fought by mages before. Always fearful of their magic near him, taking extra care not to be caught in their web. With her, he does not have this worry. With her, he does not have this fear. She weaves her magic around him, protects him keenly. How could he do any less but trust her here?

He nods as he tilts his face upwards, asking for a kiss. Hawke obliges him, cups his face and presses her lips against his. Rolling her hips as her tongue slips inside his mouth, tastes him deeply. Fingertips trace his jaw, the shell of his ear. Moving back down, against his neck, bracing herself against his shoulders. He feels it from the first moment. There’s always magic in Hawke. She brings it to the surface, a fire of a different sort.

He’s only known magic against his skin as a source of pain. Something to punish, to correct, to bring him to his knees. “Look at me,” she says when she feels him stiffen. Her thrusts are slower, taking her time as she kisses his forehead. “Look at me.” Her freckles. Dotting her cheeks like stars. He’s always loved her freckles. It calms him, and the hard line of his shoulders eases. She leans closer to him, humming as the magic spreads.

Running through every line, each marking, a heat the likes of which he’s never felt before. It eases aches he didn’t know he had, heals the hurt that lingers in his bones. She gasps when he thrusts his hips upwards, meeting her midstride, burying himself deeper inside of her. He’s lost in a haze made of her, and he groans as the lyrium in his skin begins to glow. Activating without that horrible tear, he finds peaceful existence with them.

Holding her tightly, he flips them easily, stretching out over her. Her hands splay over his shoulder blades, wrapping her legs around his waist. Heel of her foot pressing into his ass, urging more and more. She’s pressing her fingers into his skin, and he grunts with each hard snap of his hips. Unable to stop himself, hands bruising into her hips. Leaning back as he kneels on the bed, tugging her hips upwards to meet him. Again and again, pounding inside of her.

Her hands flitter against his chest, back arching as she heaves with breath. Fingernails raking downwards, unable to stop the stuttering cry that escapes her. The lyrium feeds into her magic, a loop that winds and binds them, magic into magic, cascading warmth and pleasure over and over. Her hands clench into fists, her legs shaking as her cunt tightens around him. In waves she comes, his name on her lips. “Fenris, Fenris, Fenris!”

Groaning as he leans over her, that last thrust inside her. Holding her hips tightly, burying himself as deep as he’ll go. He cums in spurts, his hips rocking against hers as her cunt draws the last drops of seed from him. He collapses beside her, chest rising up and down just as quickly as hers, trying to come back to himself. “I did not know,” he says, “that magic could be – like that.” She laughs as she rolls, drapes an arm over him, resting her head in the crook of his arm.


	162. Not Forgotten (Solas x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“The prompt "H-how long have you been standing there?" for Solas x mage Lavellan please ❤”"

He has his arms crossed, leaning over, looking over the balcony. He closes the eyes, feels the cold mountain wind bite through his clothes. He lets his head fall, his hands clasped together. Everything’s changed so much, and yet the mountains have not moved. He knew the path as well as he walked it a thousand times before. Everything’s changed and yet she remains. “How long have you been standing there?” Her voice is light and playful behind him. He straightens himself, locking his hands behind his back, greeting her with the edges of a smile on his lips.

She closes the distance between them, mimics the way he was. Arms crossed, leaning over, looking over the balcony. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” She says with a low lock of awe in her voice.

“Yes,” he says, studying the lithe lines of her – the curve of her spine, the swell of her hips, strong legs, and gentle hands. She has grown stronger since they first found her. She was so sickly, deathly pale, wracked with fever. The anchor caused her body to wrack with pain, and there was doubt the elf would make it. She has mastered the mark, and soon, she will master Thedas. She has trekked across Ferelden and Orlais, and he has watched her become stronger both in body and in mind.

She turns to face him with a smile, standing close to him. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” He wants to ask her about what she was like before the Anchor. Connected so to the Fade… had it changed her? A twist, a turn, a noose around her neck dragging her towards decisions she would never have made before. It’s pointless now. He knows she is the same, as she has always been. He knows she is no dream, no spirit that haunts him.

He reaches out, takes her in his arms. She murmurs her surprise, but quickly eases into his embrace. Burying her face against his chest, fisting her hands into the back of his tunic. She fits so tightly, so warmly. His hands splay against her back, and he can feel the life that rushes through her. Resting his cheek against her head, he wants to tell her that he’s sorry.

Instead he says, “I have not forgotten the kiss.” He chases away the despair, the long sorrow, with the taste of her lips. A distraction. One he cannot keep.


	163. Congrats (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: google congrats on the sex by lonely island, haha

It’s not just because of his room. He’s waved away the builders time and time again – surely there was something of more importance in Skyhold to repair than his roof. On the nights he wakes in a cold sweat, the nightmare still pounding in his skull, all it takes is a simple look out onto the stars. Recognizing their patterns, knowing that he is not at Kinloch, that he is not in Kirkwall. The cold mountain air, the soft scent of pine upon the wind. Soothing the lyrium ache. He also chose this tower to be his office because of how often people would pass through.

It takes only a few steps to see the courtyard. The gates out his window. Guards and diplomats alike passing through from one side to the next. He sees them all. It’s a reassurance that they are safe, that they have allies. He knows the face of each guard, each man under his command. Sometimes he greets them, looking up from the stack of papers on his desk. Sometimes it’s only a cursory grunt. Sometimes he’s so involved in his work that he doesn’t notice them at all.

This is one of those times. He only looks up when the cake slams on his desk, bits of icing scattering over his papers, surprising him. “Maker’s breath,” he says as he leans back in his chair, throwing down his quill. “What is this for?” The cake is a sloppy thing, covered in sprinkles. Hawke is grinning, hands on her hips as she stands on the other side of his desk.

“Oh you know,” she says, “for finally losing your virginity.” He can’t stop the scarlet that swirls from his core, travels upwards, covers his face.

“Ex-excuse me?” He asks. Hawke pulls out the chair, takes a seat, and puts her feet on his desk as she lounges comfortably. There’s an obscenely smug grin on her face.

“You know. With the Inquisitor,” she says.

“I don’t even – why would – I’ve not – she is – she is the _Inquisitor_ and how – how,” he sputters. Her shoulders shake with silent amusement.

“I was not a virgin,” he sulks hotly as he sinks as low as he can down into his chair. Hawke throws her head back and crows with laughter, her feet landing heavy on the floor as she slaps a knee.

“Oh Cullen,” she says, “Enjoy your cake. And congratulations.” She’s still laughing as she stands, dips a finger into the icing. “Varric insisted on the sprinkles.” She licks off the icing as she waggles her eyebrows. She turns with a wave, saunters out of his office. Cullen cradles his face in his hands, stares at the cake beneath him.


	164. Good Enough (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“No, he/she isn’t good enough to take you out. Trust me, I know.” "

He rubs his chin as he looks at the portrait in his hand. With a sigh, he settles it on the table, leans back in the chair. The candle is burning low, the moonlight shimmers through the window. He rolls his head from side to side as he works life back into sore shoulders, an aching back. He leans forward, one elbow on the desk. “Guard,” he says, gesturing towards the man at the door, “what do you think of this one?” He holds up the portrait for him to see.

The guard takes stuttering steps forward, hesitant to leave his post, but ends up by the desk anyway. “She’s pretty, sire,” he says flatly.

“My advisors wish me to marry. They have given me this… selection,” he says as he moves his hand over the table, all those scattered portraits. The guard scratches at his beard, keeps his eyes on his King. “Will you help me decide?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He holds up another portrait. “What about this one?” The guard takes a two second look before shaking his head.

“No.”

“And this one?”

“No.”

One after the other, after the other. “Will you say no to all of them?” He asks with a smile, leaning back in his chair. The guard shuffles on his feet, a flush on his cheeks, shrugs his shoulders. “Why do you say no to them?”

“They aren’t good enough for you sire.” The king chuckles into his hand.

“And who is?”

“No one, sire,” the guard says, as seriously as his answer before. He pushes himself up from his chair, makes his way around the desk. The guard moves back as he moves forward, until he reaches out and grabs a fist full of tunic.

“No one?” the king asks in a low tone. The guard shakes his head. “I can think of one, Hawke.” The hard line of his shoulders ease at the sound of his name. Fenris steps forward, reaching upwards, running fingers through his beard.

“We shouldn’t,” Hawke says, “you said last time… was the last time.” A knot forms between Fenris’s brows. There’s something like guilt reflected in his eyes, until it gives way to something harder, determined. He looks up at Hawke with a steady gaze, voice untroubled and sure of itself.

“That was when I thought I should give into my advisor’s demands,” he says. “But I want no one but you.” Fenris wraps his arms around Hawke’s neck, his eyes closing. The halberd falls with a clatter to the floor as Hawke is quick to take him in his arms, press a rough kiss to his lips.

“I thought,” Hawke breathes in between kisses, “I’d lost you.”

“Never,” Fenris tells him as Hawke backs him up to the desk, lifts him on top of it. Portraits crumple, fall to the floor.


	165. Just Stay (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ""11 for the fic meme (whoever you want)?" (“You’re going to make it. Just stay awake.”)"

Dorian presses his hand against the glass. There’s no reflection in this mirror, this thing of cold and glass. It’s a pale illusion of a place he should not be and somewhere cannot go. There is a ripple of magic around the edges, but only bitterness underneath his palm. All the magic had been swept away from it the moment Lavellan stepped through. Without them, without him, all alone. He thinks that if he just pushes hard enough, he might be able to slip through the mirror, find a way to protect him.

He loses track of how long he stands in one place, staring at green grass and blue skies. Behind him, the moon shines brightly and Bull kicks a rock off the bridge, watches it crash into the waves below. Cole stands in silence, that hat covering his eyes. There’s nothing they can do but wait. In the heart of enemy territory, the bleating cry of a dragon in the distance. Dorian’s hand slips from the mirror as he turns to pace. Wrapping arms around himself, trying to protect himself from a chill only he can feel.

“Walking, wounded, wanting. I have to see him. I have to see him again. One last time. Dorian, Dorian, Dorian,” Cole mutters under his breath. Bull straightens, the worry in the downturn of his mouth. Looking between Cole who now fidgets, and Dorian whose pacing has gone still. That chill again, wrapping around his spine, twisting with sickness, working its way into his lungs. He closes the distance between them, his hands crushing on Cole’s shoulders.

“What did you say?” His words sound hollow with panic, eyes wide and searching. Bull is making his way towards them, ready to pull them apart if he has to. Cole does not falter under his grasp, and the words spill readily from his mouth.

“One more step, I have to make it, I have to see –”

“Dorian.” A voice not from Cole, not from Bull. The mirror shatters once he steps through. Hunched and limping, grasping at his arm. What was once a mess of green, twisting vines that seeped from the anchor, is now a smoking husk. Blood drops from his fingertips. It seems almost boneless, twisted, a ruin of what once was. Dorian runs to him, opens his arms and Lavellan falls into them gratefully.

Dorian lowers them gently to the floor as Lavellan shakes in his arms. He’s paler than he should be, a sheen of sweat on his face. Cold to the touch, not unlike the mirror. His breathing shallow, his eyes can’t remain open for long. Dorian cradles him tightly. “I’m here _amatus_ ,” he says, brushing away the stray strands of hair on his face. Lavellan’s teeth are chatting. Dorian can only hold him closer. His arm lies limp on the other side, the waste of a thing, blood pooling underneath it.

The Iron Bull kneels down beside him, presses thick fingers against it. Lavellan convulses in his arms, cries out. Dorian’s hand flutters to his cheek, his forehead presses against his as he murmurs such soothing and soft things, things he’s not sure he can hear. “This needs to come off,” Bull says grimly, “now.” Dorian looks up at him, back down at the man in his arms.

“No,” he’s saying, “no, no, no. My bow. I can’t – I need my arm. How will I fight? I need to fight.” His words move from soft delirium to a cutting edge, harder, biting in his mouth. “I need to fight.” He repeats it over and over like a mantra. Dorian gently lowers him to the cobble bridge as Bull sets the arm in place. Lavellan is still protesting, but does not have the strength to move. Cole holds his shoulders down.

Dorian keeps a hand on his chest, the other at his face. Tracing the lines of his _vallaslin_ , the curve of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw. How many times had Lavellan spoken to him about crafting a bow? The way his face would light up, the fire of passion in his eyes. Hands over carving, etching the silhouette of a snake onto his bow. Fletching arrows with purpose, speaking to Dorian lightly. Lavellan reaches up now, fists his last good hand into his tunic. “No,” he begs.

Dorian takes that hand in his, presses a kiss to his knuckles. “It will be alright _amatus_ ,” he tells him. He doesn’t watch when Bull brings his axe down. He only watches at the way Lavellan twists, the tears spilling from his eyes. The way he shakes and chatters as Dorian throws as much healing as he knows at the bloody stump. If only he knew more. “Mahanon stay with me. Open your eyes, _please_.”


	166. Knowing (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ""For the Fic Meme, #15 for Fenris and fHawke" (“You either know or you don’t.”)"

Hawke’s arms are crossed on the desk, her head laying upon them. Her eyes are closed, her mouth open slightly, breathing evenly and quietly in her sleep. The candle has run low, and the parchment underneath her is now scrunched together. Upon them is her careful script and his poor imitation of her letters. He closes the book before him carefully, after marking his page. There were always other nights.

Fenris studies the cover, a simple depiction of a man in full armor fighting a dragon. Hawke was fond of these stories, of bravery and romance. There was always a knight, always a dragon, always a princess to rescue. They were children’s stories, read to Carver and Bethany and now they were his learning tools. Full of patience, never minding when he stumbled over a word. Happy to read a page over and over and over again.

He mimics the way she is, slumped so in her seat, arms crossed, head on its side. He looks at her, and a smile brushes his lips. He reaches out, tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She does not stir at his touch. He’s more than well aware of how much she needs her rest. The city has her running ragged, asking the Champion for this and demanding the Champion for that. He knows how much she worries in private, how much more she thinks she should be doing. He knows she does more than enough.

Besides the knights, besides the dragons, besides the princesses, these tales always had one thing in common. Falling in love at first sight. Knowing upon on a look that the other was theirs. Hawke would laugh at this, scrunch her nose. _Romantic, but unlikely_ , she would say. Fenris straightens himself, the chair moving back as he stands. One arm underneath her legs, the other at her back, he picks her up with ease.

She murmurs in his arms, nestles her face against his chest. A sign of how exhausted she is. He takes the stairs carefully, minding each step and ensuring her feet do not touch the rail. Pushing open the door to her room, settling her onto her bed. Pulling the sheets around her, tucking her in tightly. He stands, and finds he does not want to leave. His fingers brush over her cheekbones.

Romantic, but unlikely. But he knew. From the first glance, he knew.


	167. Cuddling (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ""Today’s a perfect day for naked cuddling. I don’t even care what day it is. Every day is perfect. (I’m gonna spend it with you.)""

He loves the way sunlight looks on her. Falling against her back, highlighting each bump of her spine, every delicate freckle. Her arms crossed underneath her head, her eyes closed, a small smile at the edges of her lips. The blanket is draped across her haphazardly, tangled up in her legs. His fingertips drift lazily over her skin, and he shifts closer to press a kiss to her shoulder. She murmurs something warm and happy underneath him, turns over to face him.

She looks up at him, so bright and so vibrantly Hawke. The smile breaks upon his face as he presses his forehead against hers. She runs her fingers through his hair, hands upon his neck, pulling him down closer to her. Laughing as they wrap arms around the other, roll around in the bed. Hawke emerges the victor, stretches out over him, his wrists pinned under her grasp. She hums delight as her weight settles over him, presses a kiss to the tip of his nose.

So easy to slip from her hold, run his hands down her back, startle her with a cheeky slap. Laughing as he holds her, as she buries her head in the crook of his neck. Feeling her breathe against him, the smile still at her lips. “We should get up,” she sighs. He holds her tighter, groans as he rolls them over, uses his body weight to trap her beneath him. He allows himself to go limp, and Hawke laughs as she pushes at him uselessly.

“Fenris, we have to get out of bed at some point,” she says.

“No,” he grumbles into her chest. She threads her fingers through his hair, scratches lightly at his scalp. Her hand drifts over his shoulder, traces gentle circles. She kisses the crown of his head. He lets his eyes close as he listens to her heart beat. He slowly draws his arms in, against her arms, splaying underneath her back. Hawke, this is Hawke, this is his Hawke.

There were countless things, things he thought freedom might bring, that allowed him to see the next day. And the next. And the next. All with a chain around his neck. He imagined warm food, a proper bed. Able to sleep in, able to stay up late. He always saw himself alone. Never once did he imagine another person in his life. Never once did he dare to. “I love you,” she says. He tilts his face upwards, finds her lips with his.

There’s a warmth like soothing fire on her tongue. It travels down the length of him, coils around every bone and nestles in his chest. He deepens the kiss as his palm presses into the mattress, the other moving up her thigh. She wraps her legs around him, her arms around his neck. “Fenris,” she murmurs against his mouth.

“Stay here,” he says, “with me.” She smiles as her hand brushes over his cheek.

“Always,” she says.


	168. Finding (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "How did you find me?"

She settles down beside him, feet dangling over the dock, palms flat against the ground behind her. She tilts her head back, closes her eyes, and breathes in the sea air. Gentle sails float by the docks, gulls circle in air. Fenris looks up at her sudden presence, in this corner he thought no one knew. “How did you find me?” He asks her. Her eyes open, her head cocks and she gives him a look. He chuckles under his breath, shakes his head. Of course. It’s Hawke. Of course she’d find him.

He sits with his back hunched, his hands in his lap, staring down at them. He plays with the edges of the red around his wrist, the carefully tied knot. She swings her feet, ankle over ankle, and does not press or push. He had left the estate when he had thought no one else would notice, engrossed in food, wine, and talk. Varric had been talking to Sebastian and Anders, while Isabela was arguing with Aveline again. Hawke and Merrill had been laughing together, heads close together.

A curious thing, seeing them all gathered there. Talking about anything that suits their fancy, unafraid to speak their opinions. So relaxed in each other’s company, all the unspoken friendship between them. Danarius would invite his ‘friends’ to his estate sometimes. Speaking of hidden, guarded things, dangerous smiles behind dangerous eyes. For one horrible moment he was back in Tevinter, among those people, a chain around his neck. The illusion had shattered and he was back with his friends… but the damage was done. He had left shortly after.

Hawke doesn’t ask. Whatever had driven him away was his to talk about, not hers to pry. Others would push and prod, demand answers, telling him that talking about it would make it better. Hawke sits beside him, wind in her hair, watching him with a slight albeit worried smile. She is patient, and she waits. He loves her even more for it. She creeps closer to him, shuffling over on the dock, mimicking the way he sits. Shoulder to shoulder, hands in her lap. “Hello,” she says.

“There is something I wished to give you,” he says. “I, ah, never found the right time to give it to you.” Not with Feynriel. Failing her by falling prey to a demon. Not with her mother. He had bought it just before. It had burned in his pocket at the funeral. The shadow passes over her face, leaves as quickly as it had come. He had his ghosts. She had her own.

“So you decided to hide?” She asks with a smile. He laughs softly as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He draws the small box from his belt, presents it to her. She takes it hesitantly, the question appearing on her brow. She opens it with careful fingers, eyes widening when she sees what’s inside. A chain of gold, a jewel of red.

“Fenris, I – I can’t accept this. This must have cost you so much coin, I –” She’s closing the lid, attempting to give it back to him. He pushes her hand away, shakes his head.

“Please, Hawke. Take it,” he says. She looks at him for a moment, searching his face for any sign of doubt, before slowly nodding and pressing the box against her chest.

“Thank you,” she says. “It’s beautiful.”

“I am glad you like it.” He had read it in one of the books she had given him. It had taken weeks for him to struggle through even a few pages. One thing was clear. You gave gifts to those you loved. She holds the box tightly, rests her head on his shoulder. When she arrives at the mansion to collect him for an errand the next day, she is wearing the necklace. And the next day, and the day after that. And after that, and after that.


	169. Failed (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I tried my best not to feel anything for you. Guess what? I failed.”

Hawke laughs harder now for her days of silence. Losing count of how many mugs of beer she’s had and still wanting more. The Hanged Man is full of her vicious, forced, glee. Talking over everyone, challenging anyone who approaches her to anything they want. She bests three at arm wrestling, two at darts. She flattens the ones who wants to fight her, pushes away the ones who want to kiss her. They burned a closed coffin today, marked Leandra’s grave with flowers of purple.

He watches as she stumbles to her feet, heading towards the stairs. The others watch her go. The others look at him. He’s already after her, taking the stairs by two. He finds her in one of the empty rooms, standing alone in the dark. “Hawke,” he says slowly. She turns, does not smile. She never pretends with him. He takes one of her hands, tries to wipe away the blood on her knuckles. “Perhaps we should go home.”

“I don’t want to,” she says. “I don’t want to be in that fucking house. It echoes Fen.” She looks at him, eyes so brightly blue, shining under moonlight. “Come home with me.”

Her hands tremble on his cheeks, cupping his face, brushing her thumbs over his cheekbones. She steps even closer, her forehead practically touching his. He reaches up, fingertips at her wrists, wrapping around them. “I tried to do what you asked. I tried not to feel anything for you,” she says, “but I – I’ll _always_ –” She’s moving closer as she speaks, her nose brushing against his, eyes moving from his to his lips, searching, wanting, asking, please, please, please, let me. He doesn’t say no.

She tastes like beer and something better, less bitter. Earth after a morning rain, dew upon leaves, wet of grass underneath bare feet. Moss upon bark, the sweeter taste of berries hidden upon her tongue. His hands travel up her arms, squeeze upon her shoulders, pushes her against the wall. Fingers tap against his neck, thread through his hair, while her other hand splays against his back. How, how, how could he have gone so long without kissing her?

Pressing against her as tightly as he can, wanting to feel all of her, missing every inch. Hawke begs him closer, opens even more to him, heart pounding in her chest. She has him, she has him, he’s come back to her. His touch at her collarbone, at her jaw, strong at the back of her neck. Starved for so long and finally able to feel. A flood upon dried land, seeping into every crevice and crack, filling up his lungs and bleeding into his bones.

Their first kiss was different. Fumbling and shy, sitting side by side on her couch, her hand over his. Hesitant and wondering, a promise of more. This is want and desperation, a question answered, a clinging hope, and Fenris knows, _knows_ , that this isn’t what either of them need. Gasping as he pulls away from her, fingers bruising into her shoulders, keeping her pressed against the wall as he steps back.

“Hawke, we shouldn’t – I can’t,” he says, voice broken and hoarse. Her lips are red and raw because of him, and oh maker, she looks so lost. She’s shaking her head, the knot twisting and turning between her brows.

“No, no, no, Fenris, please,” she says, reaching after him as his hands leave her. Holding onto him so loosely, trembling in his palm, chin quivering. She knows what she’s done. She’s shattered them again, made the distance wider, and forced a thing that had not healed. Could not heal. “Please don’t leave.” Pulling his hand from hers, squeezing them into fists. “Please don’t leave me again.” He turns away from her, feeling something inside him snap and break, hurrying into the hallway.

“Please don’t go,” the tears spill down her cheeks as she slides to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. “Please don’t leave me alone.” Silent sobs into the arms she wraps around herself.


	170. A Suitor (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Fenris to Hawke "You deserve a suitor with a title, coin, an estate." Hawke: 'Then marry me.'"

There’s a small freckle on the back of her hand. Darker than the rest, by her thumb, close to her wrist. Her fingers tap against the desk, repetitive and restless, staring at herself in the mirror. There’s a thin scar on her cheek, still healing, but they’ve run out of time. Someone else might have been able to do this better, but she asked him. Fenris holds a thick chunk of her hair in one of his hands, scissors in the other. “Are you certain?” She looks at him in the mirror, gives him a slow nod.

She had short hair in Ferelden. Anything longer and it would be in the way while she worked the farm. Mother would cut both hers and Carver’s hair together while Bethany only watched. On the day they fled, she had been needing a cut. It curled around her ears when the darkspawn chased them, brushed against the back of her neck when the ogre broke her sister. She had tried to ask, in that tiny hovel, for Leandra to cut her hair. She had cried, her daughter dead, no long hair left for her to comb at night. So Hawke and Carver both took turns helping each other, choppy and messy, suiting the work they did while they earned their place in Kirkwall.

She had not cared in the Deep Roads, tying it back with whatever she could find as they ran from the rock wraiths. Carver had brushed a long lock of it behind her ears as he turned away, his back forever to her, and left with the Wardens. Leandra had hummed softly, that first night in the estate, sitting on the couch while Hawke sat on the floor, allowed her mother to brush her hair. Fenris threading his fingers through it, whispering her name in her ear. Braiding it back neatly, hands clasped behind her back, standing silent at her mother’s funeral. Sticking to her forehead as she raced through burning streets, knot coming undone as the Arishok raised her above his head, an axe buried in her belly.

Playing with it absent-mindedly as candles burned low, gently correcting Fenris as he stumbles over a word. Laughing as Isabela runs her hands through it, hiding cards to cheat with later. Feeling it against her bare back as she sits up on the bed. Fenris, sweeping it away from her neck to plant a kiss, smiling against her shoulder. Meredith, tugging at it hard, dragging her back with one hand, a red sword in the other. Watching as Kirkwall burned for a second time. The Chantry would be coming now, looking for the Champion.

There would be no time to look after it while they ran. Easier, then, to just cut it off. She hears the sheen of the scissors, metal sliding against metal, feels the first chunk fall away. More and more, shorter and shorter, until she sees the person she thinks she might have been in Lothering. Older now, more lines, more scars, some ghost of the person she once was. Fenris gently brushes away the last bits of it from her neck.

Settling his hands on her shoulders as he stands behind her, watching as she examines herself in the mirror. A hand moves upwards, thumb against her cheek, over that line of a scar. Her hand settles over his, closing her eyes as she leans into his touch. “I’m sorry Hawke,” he tells her.

“What for?” She asks this without opening her eyes. They do this because they must run. Too dangerous to stay in Kirkwall, and the Amell power is not what it was. She does not have the status to protect herself. Her head turns slightly, she kisses his palm. She leans backwards against him, keeps his hand in hers. She looks up at him, and smiles. They would be moving from camp to camp, staying away from towns, from any sort of luxury. They would be locking the door to her estate, unsure of when they could return.

“If you had – a suitor with a title. Coin. An estate. You could stay –”

“Then marry me.” Hands against the desk, pushing herself up from where she was sitting, turning to face him. Wrapping arms over his shoulders, her face so close to his. “If you married me then you would have a title, coin and an estate.”

“That is not – that’s not what I meant,” he says, his hands settling on her waist.

“I know what you meant and if you think for an instant I would ever consider leaving you, then you’re mad,” she says. The knot twists in his brows, he looks away from her. Fingers on his chin, tilting his gaze back to hers.

“It’s just hair,” she says softly, “it grows back. I can live without it. Not you.” His grip tightens on her waist, holding her tighter as she presses her lips against his. “Fenris.” She murmurs his name into his mouth, winds her hand in his hair.


	171. Written (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: "I found perfect prompt that will hurt everybody! Ans immediately thought of you :) "soulmate au where instead of your soulmates first words to you written on your skin it’s their last words you ever hear them say so you don’t know who your soulmate is until you lose them"

He’s never cared. Those things, scars of a different sort written into his skin. On the inside of his arm, over veins. Tracing fingers over curving letters. He can’t read them, doesn’t understand, and doesn’t know what the letters are. He doesn’t care what they say. He clasps his gauntlets together and the words are hidden beneath cloth and leather, metal of a silver sort. He tells himself he doesn’t care. That he doesn’t want to know. Then she tells him that she thinks he’s brave and he can’t help but wonder.

She’s always known she’ll be the one to die first. As a child she imagines a glorious battle. Somewhere with her soulmate by her side, protecting him to her last breath. Perhaps against a dragon! That would be an excellent way to die. As a teenager, she binds her hand with leather, covers the scratching script on the back of her hand. She works the fields just as her father had once done. She thinks the words might lie. She doesn’t have time for love. It’s what keeps her safe when they run from darkspawn, through darker roads. It’s what gives her legs strength to reach the sunlight, to wonder if it might be him.

He doesn’t need to know the words. Not even as she’s sitting by his side, book open between them, reading aloud the words beneath her finger. Stumbling over tracing her letters, frustrated with his progress. He doesn’t need to know after she smiles, tells him these things take time. He doesn’t need to know when her hand settles over his, holds him tight. He doesn’t need to know when her hands are on his face, her lips on his, not even as she watches him go. He doesn’t need to know when she ties red around his wrist.

She knows she isn’t wrong. It’s him, or no one. He doesn’t need to love her back, she just wants him to stay by her side. She doesn’t tell him this. Instead she invites him to the Hanged Man, on every sordid quest, to dinner at the estate. She tells him she’s ready to continue their reading lessons whenever he is. She has no issue with waiting. She doesn’t mind. She knows all that plagues him, bits of his history from talk over wine and candlelight. He thinks he’s broken. She knows he’s brilliant, a quick study, wonderful and kind, perfect in all the ways that matter.

They look at each other across the Hanged Man, Danarius’s broken body heaped between them. Faces flushed red, breathing heavy with the effort of killing him. There’s a bloodstain on his cheek. She makes her way towards him and knows, knows, _knows_. Alone in his mansion that night, she kisses the letters on his skin. “Would you like to know what it says?” she asks.

“No,” he says, pulling her down to him, taking her back into his arms. If it is not her then it is no one. The words don’t matter because only she does.

* * *

They buy a farmhouse. On the edge of town, close enough to visit the others if they want to. They have no more need for an estate. His knees ache when it rains. Her wrists begin to give her trouble. He braids her hair for her in the mornings, all the black gone from her hair, grey like him now. There’s a permanent line of laughter around her mouth. Little ravens feet around his eyes. The red in the token she gave him all those years ago is faded now, but he wears it still. Each night, they walk under the stars together, hand in hand.

When she gets sick, he stays by her side. He reads to her as she once read to him, the spectacles perched at the edge of his nose. He brings her flowers from the walk she can no longer take, tells her all the news of the others. He sits on the edge of the bed, holds her hand in his. Her thumb runs over his knuckles as she smiles, breathes out a happy sigh. “I love you,” she says. He shakes his head.

“Hawke, please, stay with me a little longer,” he pleads. A watery laugh escapes her as she squeezes his hand a little tighter.

“I always knew it would be you Fenris. I’m so glad it was you,” she tells him.

He moves back to the city. He lies in his home, in that bed alone, looks at his arm. Tracing fingers over curving letters. A script so recognizably hers. _I’m so glad it was you._ He holds her token to his face, giving it a small kiss. It catches the tears as they roll down his cheeks. “You too Hawke,” he says to himself, “I will always be yours.”


	172. Don't (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "for the protective sentence starters, “Don’t touch her/him!”, and/ or “I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.” for fenhawke because i am an utter sap for your writing"

It’s Hawke who coaxes him out of the mansion. “They can be your friends too,” she tells him as they walk to Lowtown together. She is dressed plainly, in leggings and a stained tunic, hands in the pockets of her ragged sweater. He is still wearing his armor. He’s not sure how else to be at the moment. She is the one who visits him regularly, sharing bread when she brings it even when he knows she has just about as much coin as him. _Starting at the bottom_ , she’s fond of saying. _Nowhere to go but up_. He’s not sure even she believes it.

The Hanged Man is loud, crowded and very much Not His Place. She only smiles at him, nods in the direction of their table. The others welcome him easily enough. Merrill shuffles to the left, creates a space for him to sit on the bench. “Broody!” Varric is shouting, “good to see you!” He sits with his hands clasped in his lap, watches as the others fall into easy discussion with each other. Hawke uses her foot to push at Isabela, shoving her out of the way so that she may sit beside Fenris. She places a mug of ale in front of him, a matching one in front of her.

“How much do I owe you?” He asks as he wraps his hands around it. Hawke gives him a puzzled smile.

“Nothing,” she says. She drinks deeply, enjoying even the piss they call beer. She is the one who pulls him into conversations with the others until she lets him run on his own. Playing cards with Isabela, not quite understanding the rules but winning anyway. Discussing how best to maintain a sword – oil from Antiva or from Ferelden? The Antiva one at least doesn’t make your sword smell like dog shit. Pretend it’s poison for your enemies, Isabela helpfully volunteers. Carver snorts at that, shakes his head.

The opportunity comes a little while later, when he sees Hawke’s mug finally emptied. She’s distracted, talking to Anders. Her hands are moving wildly as she argues passionately. Of course the size of the fireball matters. He takes both their mugs to the counter, waits patiently for the bartender. The drunks are sitting at the bar counter, leering at him. “Don’t you have a tavern in your alienage?” One sneers, “Fucking knife-ears where they don’t belong.”

Words are easy to ignore. When the drunk reaches out, hand around his arm – well, that’s harder. “Are you listening to me you damn elf?” Fenris’s hands clench into a fists, ready to move.

“Don’t touch him!” Hawke snarls, a hand around the man’s wrist, yanking it back sharply. She twists it, bends it to a sharp ankle, and sends him screaming to the floor. Fenris is wide-eyed behind her. He has fought. Every day that he can remember, he has always fought. Sometimes for himself, mostly for others. Never once have any fought for him. Never once has any come to his defense. Not until Hawke. Here she stands, standing over the man demanding an apology from him. Not to her, but to _Fenris_.

“I’m sorry! Maker I’m sorry! Let me go!” Hawke looks over her shoulder to look at Fenris, releases the man only after he nods.

“Apology accepted,” Fenris says. The man scrambles away, out the door, still holding his wrist.

“Are you getting more drinks?” She asks casually as she walks towards him, stands by his side. “You’ll have to let me know how much I owe you,” she says as she smiles.

“Nothing,” he tells her.


	173. Carnival (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“You can hold onto me if you’re scared, you know?” (a little modern au fenhawke fluff? cause that would be super cute)"

Her stance is wide, feet firmly planted on the ground. Tongue between teeth, squinting as the butt of the rifle presses against her. Holding it tight, taking aim, squeezing the trigger. The foam bullet hits, the toy is knocked down and Hawke raises her arms high in victory, whooping as she does. “Told you I could do it!” She grins to him. He’s already smiling, his arms crossed, watching as she thanks the person behind the counter as he hands her the toy she’s won.

She slowly makes her way towards him with a sly smile on her face, holding the small plush dog against her cheek. “Don’t you think it’s cute?” She asks. He’s never seen her in a dress before. A bright flowered thing, flaring at her waist. Ending just above her knees, sneakers on her feet. A necklace bounces against her chest, small earrings sparkle on her ears. He can’t help but smile at the way she beams and sways.

“Yes,” he says, “it is,” not talking about the dog at all.

They move from game to game – and Hawke demolishes them all. She’s got her arms full of useless things, and she gives one to each child she passes. The only thing she can’t quite do is the ring toss. She’s digging more and more coins out of her purse, and failing at each attempt. “What are you going to do with a goldfish?” Fenris asks her, eyebrows raised, as she passes him three rings to try.

“Look after it, I guess,” she shrugs. He gets it on the first attempt.

She holds her fish while he holds the cotton candy, breaking off pieces and passing them to her. “Oh!” She blurts it out while she swallows the latest bit, pointing with her free hand at the ferris wheel, “let’s go on that!” Fenris looks up at it wearily. She shifts from foot to foot as they finish the last of the candy, and then Hawke is eagerly running towards it. He follows her at a much slower pace.

She’s grinning as she settles the small bag on her lap, the fish happily making circles inside of it. Fenris’s knuckles are white around the bar that’s holding them in place, trying to focus on Hawke’s knees and not on the disappearing ground. She’s close enough that he can smell the lavender that drifts around her, feel the warmth of her arm against his. She’s looking out in wonder over the carnival, the night sky behind her, stars all in their brilliance. The wind is colder up high, and her hair swirls about her face. She turns to him and smiles.

Somehow she notices. Her hand slips over his. “Are you afraid of heights?” She asks.

“I am not,” he grumbles. She tilts her head, gives him a singular _look_. “A little.” He admits it begrudgingly. She laughs a little, wedges herself even closer, her hand moving to his thigh.

“You can hold onto me if you’re scared, you know?” She says slyly. His hands don’t move from the bars. “At least let me take your mind off of it.” He almost doesn’t hear her. A finger traces the shell of his ear, hand settling at his neck, thumb running along the line of his jaw. Turning his face towards hers. She tastes of cotton candy and something sweeter, pure sugar on her lips. He lets his eyes slowly close, allows her to draw him in. He doesn’t notice when they’re on the ground again, his arms wrapped around her.


	174. No Apologies (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Im not apologizing to that asshole. They were saying horrible things about you. (Any dragon age pairing you feel like doing) "

She appears like a storm at his door, all grey clouds and rolling thunder, the lingering lightning just under her skin. It’s in the knot on her brow, the way her eyes search and do not find. Biting her lip, shifting from one foot to the other until she finally decides to pace. Arms crossed, fingers tapping. Hawke does not give into anger lightly. She lets it fester, buries it in a place others cannot see it. The Champion is always calm, cool-headed. It’s to only Fenris she gives the privilege of all of her. He watches her quietly, waiting patiently, until she’s ready to speak.

“My mother,” she says, whirling to face him, “Meredith brought up my mother.” She runs a shaky hand through her hair, giving mocking laughter as she does. “She had the nerve to tell me that I wasn’t – that I wasn’t _capable_ of protecting her.” Fenris’s jaw grits together. Hawke had confessed once, and only once, that she blamed herself. A lingering doubt in not having gotten there faster, in not having seen it sooner. He had done what he could to weed away the needless guilt but here was Meredith, planting it once again.

Hawke stops in her tracks, one hand on her hip, the other at her mouth. Chewing on the skin by her thumb, a habit to hide the frustration, the bubbling fury. Fenris pushes himself up from the chair, takes her hand in his. Running his thumbs over her knuckles, kneading the weariness away from her palm. A massage she leans into, steps closer to him, rests her head on his shoulder. His hand works its way up from her waist to her back, running through her hair, a kiss at her temple. “Come with me,” he says.

That hand still in his, leading her down the steps, taking her to his kitchen. He opens a cupboard and without a word, hands her a plate. He then takes one for himself. She holds it, puzzled, cocking her head and the wordless question hanging on her lips. He raises it, smashes down upon the counter. Hawke startles back, hugging her plate to her chest, staring wide eyed at the pieces on the floor. A moment, then two, a third until finally – her mouth thins into a grim line. Plate goes up, pieces come down. Fenris hands her another.

They work their way through the cupboards. Plates turn into bowls, and bowls into cups. They whipping them as hard as they can across the room - Hawke might have the better aim, but Fenris has her on force. Throwing them upwards, watching them smash against the ceiling. She raises her hand and the shattered pieces fall like snow, crumbling and turning to dust.

They sit on the floor in the aftermath, side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Silent laughter between them, Hawke with her hand over her mouth, Fenris with his arms crossed. The storm is gone now, crossing into sunnier prospects. “You feel better?” A question that feels more like a statement. The smile curls at her lips.

“I do,” she says. “Although we’ll need to replace some things.” Renewed laughter, shaking together, clasping their hands together.

“It’s fine,” he tells her, “I’ll just have to eat at your estate more often.” Pleased pink creeps into her cheeks, and she leans over to press a kiss to his cheek.

* * *

They stand in Meredith’s office, and he is watching the storm slowly gather. Hawke’s arms are crossed, fingers biting into skin, and she does not bother to hide her frown. “You have a duty to this city,” Meredith is saying, “you will do as I ask you!” The frown only deepens and Meredith is practically spitting anger at Hawke’s silence. “If your sister had lived she would have been part of this Circle. As you should be! Perhaps she would have convinced you to listen to reason.”

“Enough.” Fenris steps forward. “Your problems are your own. You will deal with this without the Champion’s help,” he says. Without another word, he takes Hawke’s hand and pulls her from the office. Varric and Isabela shrug at each other, follow them out. Meredith sputters after them.

“She’ll demand an apology,” Hawke says to him.

“She can demand it,” Fenris tells her, “she will not get it.” Hawke bites her bottom lip, hides the smile, gives his hand a small squeeze.


	175. Never Friends (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“We were never just friends.” FenHawke"

Hands on her hips, head tilted to the side as she stares at the hole in his roof. “That really should be fixed,” she says as she points upwards. She doesn’t know why she says it. It’s the first time the silence between them has felt like an itch. Stretching and tense, like dough being kneaded again and again, around and around in her belly. Fenris has his arms crossed, leaning against the desk. He shrugs, shakes his head. So much awful silence. They’ve hardly spoken in the days since… then. The relief floods her bones when he opens his mouth to speak.

“There’s no need,” he tells her. He’s lived with it this long. She doesn’t know the nights he’s spent lying in bed, staring at the stars. It’s different from when he was running. Then, stars were something to be afraid of. It meant he was out in the open, it meant he was vulnerable. Here they are simply reassurance that he is free. That he looks upon the stars because he chooses to, not because he has to. It gives him direction when he thinks he has none. The rain doesn’t bother him. The snow enchants him.

“One day I’m going to find you frozen to death in here,” she says.

“It is fine Hawke,” he snaps, “leave it alone.” He has his eyes pointed at the ground, ears flattened, does not see her subtle flinch or the way she hugs her arms to herself. The way he says ‘it’ and the way she hears ‘me’.

“This isn’t why I came here,” she says softly. “I’m sorry.” He can’t stop himself from reaching out, hand on her arm, holding her back with just the barest touch.

“I am sorry as well. I’m not… angry. At you,” he says. Where she might feel the silence kneading against her, he feels it like a scratch. A dog barking in a small room, pawing to get out. Raking nails against wood, wanting to be so much more. He’s still looking at the ground. He doesn’t know how to look her in the eye anymore.

“I know.”

“What did you come here for?”

“To see if we could be… friends,” she says. His ears twitch, dip low. The first time she had come to his mansion, he thought it was to check on her investment. This stray elf she had picked up, now in her debt. A debt he was sure she would want to collect. Instead she simply talked. Brought food, asked him how comfortable he was. Speaking of a home that burned to the ground, the new home she’d found in Kirkwall. The home that he too could maybe find.

She made him feel daring, more sure of himself. He’d told her he’d practice his flattery for her. He agonized over that one small comment after she’d left. Had he been too forward? This thing that had sparked between them continued to linger. Shy glances, bolder words. A touch, a glance, a whisper. They were never just friends. But here he had broken it, cast them back to the beginning. No need to flatter. No want for boldness. Just the itch, the scratch, the knead and the ache.

He nods. He half steps back when he feels a fingertip at his chin. A gentle push upwards, her eyes meeting his. She gives him a small, half thing of a smile. And then she is walking down the stairs, arms back wrapped around herself.


	176. Not Alone (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“I’ll take her,” Aveline says, her hand resting on Hawke’s back, just between her shoulder blades. Rubbing slightly, the smallest motion, comforting in a way only Aveline can be. Hawke has her arms crossed on the table, her head resting upon them, feeling the world spin around her. Drink after drink, after drink, after drink. She thought it would make her feel better. Isabela is standing behind her, arms crossed, mouth closed and tongue playing with the back of the piercing that sits behind her lip. It’s Isabela who helps tug Hawke to her feet while Aveline kneels on the ground. When she stands again, it’s with Hawke on her back.

“Are you sure you can manage?” Isabela asks. Aveline’s hands underneath her thighs, her head resting on her shoulder. Eyes closed, arms loosely wrapped around her neck. One hand fisted in Aveline’s tunic.

“I’ve got her.” Hawke’s breathing is even, soft warmth against her neck. She doesn’t move, doesn’t mumble, even as Aveline adjusts her better. The night air is cool, the streets of Lowtown empty. The stars shine bright, but cannot outshine the brilliance of the moon. Torches on the walls flicker and flame, crackle among the sound of Aveline’s boots hitting cobblestone. She can see dark figures slink away, not worth the trouble of bothering the Guard Captain.

It’s much of the same in Hightown, except this time one figure does not shy away from her. He has his sword on his back, sweat on his brow and she knows she’ll have a report of some gang members killed in the night. Same as usual. Fenris frowns when he sees her, sees Hawke on her back, and cautiously makes his way towards them. “Is she alright?” He asks it in a whisper. She’s not sure it’s because he’s afraid of waking Hawke or simply afraid.

“She’ll be fine,” Aveline says. “She just drank too much.”

“Can – can I help?”

“I think you’ve done enough.” She doesn’t mean for it to come out so harshly. It’s a subtle flinch in his ears, and she watches them flatten and turn his eyes away. There’s nothing left for either of them to say. He heads towards Lowtown. She goes for Hawke’s estate. When his footsteps fade in the distance, she feels Hawke’s arms tighten around her. A small sniffle, the barest hint of wet on her neck where Hawke is burying her face.

“I love him,” she mumbles into Aveline’s scarf.

“I know.”

“He left me.”

“I know Hawke.”

“Can you stay over?” Hawke asks, chin on her shoulder, blue eyes glistening. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You have your mother –”

“Please?” She sounds so small. Hawke has never faltered in her confidence before, wavered in assurance. Always the Champion.

“You’re not drinking this much again,” Aveline tells her sternly. She feels Hawke nod. Another squeeze of her arms.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.


	177. Envy (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I had a very weird dream last night that Danarius had used blood magic on Aveline to possess her, but she was unaware of his control, and only Fenris could tell. So I thought that could be a very cool angsty fic, although which companion gets controlled could be up to writer's discretion - how does he convince the others one of them is possessed? Who believes him? Who doesn't? What do you do when your friend might kill you at any moment? ANGST."  
> I went in a slightly different direction.

He’s not quite sure what wakes him. He wakes in a daze, the dog still a heavy weight in the bed beside him. Hot breath on his face, taking up the space Hawke used to. His ears are perked, his head cocked, listening to something Fenris cannot hear. It’s early enough. Sleep has been difficult to get, harder to keep. He rubs at his eyes, puts feet against cold wood. It’s only when he walks to the top of the stairs does he hear it. Gentle tapping at the door.

The sun has only just begun to rise. He makes his way to the door with irritation scratching in his chest. Some other person who wants to see where the Champion used to live, no doubt. Someone else who wants to know if she is truly dead. He was turning them away in droves at the beginning. Aveline had posted guards outside the door. She herself had even stayed for a while. All of them had… he was grateful for their company. It meant more to him than he could say. Not enough words for that.

He opens the door and at first he sees no one. “Fenris.” He looks down. She’s sitting in the doorway, knees at her chest. Paler than she should be, dried blood on her cheeks. “I seem to have lost my key,” she says weakly. He falls to his knees, trembling hands on her face. Warm to the touch. Real. She closes her eyes. Pulling her into his embrace, wrapping her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.

“They told me you were dead,” he says. The tremor of his hands seeps into his voice, coils around his words. Holding her tight as though she is a ghost, ensuring that she will not slip away. But she is here, she is in his arms, she is breathing and she is grinning.

“And abandon all of this? Never,” Hawke says.

* * *

“She is different,” Fenris says simply. Aveline turns her head, raises an eyebrow. They sit together, side by side, watching Hawke on the other side of the Hanged Man. She’s laughing with a bunch of strangers, wearing clothes he’s never known her to touch. Clothes that show she has coin, that shows her wealth, flaunts her status. Wearing gold earrings, a heavy necklace. He’d find her humming in front of a mirror, pressing fingers to her face. He’d never known her to be vain before.

“Perhaps she just wants a change,” Aveline tells him, “it’s only been a few months since she’s been back.” Despite what she says, she wears the same frown he does. “Has she spoken of what happened to her?”

“No.” They’ve barely spoken at all. She wakes early, stays out late. Attending parties she used to look down on. Flirting with nobility, campaigning for the Viscount’s office. Something he’s never known her to want. One by one they are folding, ready to hand the city to their Champion. It is only him, only her friends, who notice that something in her has changed. “This is not like her,” he says. Aveline’s frown deepens.

It’s Aveline who must have written to Varric. He receives a simple note of only two words, stamped with the sigil of a crossbow, delivered by an Inquisition courier. Envy demon. He crumples the note in his fist. It’s a poor imitation of her. She spares no more kind words for him. No lingering touches, longing looks. The love he thought had returned to him was still dead on the doorstep of when she first left. When she stayed in the Fade. A mockery has come to take her place.

He heads up the stairs. She is sitting in front of the mirror again. It wears her face. It speaks her voice. She pays him no mind as he stands behind her, as he studies the flecks of green that hide in the blue of her eyes. Hands rest on her shoulders. “You’re not Hawke,” he says. Her movements still. Her eyes gaze upwards at him. Cold. More stone and bone than blood and flesh. It begins to laugh.


	178. Firelink (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dark souls AU for a friend

Step and another, foot striking stone, a tile shakes loose and shatters on the street below. She runs the line of the roof, from one building to the other, pounding in her chest and an ache in her bones. Breath burning in lungs, sweat on her back and on her brow, sword heavy in her hand. Shield in the other, leather around metal, hand clenched into fist. The fog seeps into the street where he runs under the eerie glow of moonlight. He can see a few steps ahead. She sees the shapes in the distance.

He hears them before he sees them, the rattling inhale and the movement of bones that should not be. The shriek, the cry, the ashes and the embers. She lands heavy in front of him, shield planted down, catching the bolts that fly in his direction. He pushes sore muscles even harder, sweeping out from behind her with his axe, taking both their heads. These shambling corpses stand no match for them. They look at each other, nod, and on they go.

They fight through the narrow corridors of the castle side by side. Her sword bites out from behind her shield. He guards her back. They move systematically from floor to floor, lighting the torches to show the path from whence they came. Up the stairs – she bashes a corpse in the skull and watches as it goes tumbling to the floor far below. He sweeps the axe upwards, catches one in the belly. Block, strike. He moves, she reacts.

At the top she plants her sword in the space between stones. Hands on knees, taking a moment to catch breath, calm shaking knees. Hand on her back, closing his eyes and tilting his face upwards. Swallowing with difficulty, parched but not finished. Onwards they go.

It waits for them at the very top, lounging upon his throne. The flat surface of the roof with the moon behind him, full and bright. The clouds are no match for its glory, cannot hide its light. Spreading arms to welcome these two guests, before he takes up his spear. She dashes one way, he goes the other. Taking its attention onto her, she beats her sword against shield. Metal clanging that has it swinging towards her, its mouth opening and breathing out frost. He dashes forward, slices his axe at the back of its knee. Rage as it swings, nimble as he dashes backwards.

Her turn to strike as she hacks at the giants arm, trying to loose the spear from its grip. Mouth opening once again and she raises her shield. Feeling the utter cold on her arm, gritting her teeth as she hunkers down behind the shield. He strikes again and again, slash and slice, blackened blood staining stone, slick down the haft. He riddles the giant with gory lash after lash. Together they work at its attention, from one to the other, taking every opportunity to strike.

She rolls underneath the sweep of its spear. He dashes forward in the opening. Axe buries in belly and the giant screams at the heavens. Falters and falls, spear clattering away, guts spilling downwards. He keeps it pinned while she moves forward, ends the beast with her sword at its neck. It breathes its last, curling and contracting into itself. A ruined husk, a shell of what once. She lets the shield fall from her grasp, the sword following suit.

She breathes deeply as she pulls the helm from her head, shakes out her hair. He doesn’t hesitate in following her example. Smiling as he closes the distance between them, the barest touch of gauntlet against her cheek as he bends down to kiss her. They both look up at the roar, feel the ground tremble beneath their feet. The dragon rakes the tower with its claws, before beating its wings and circling above them. Hair swirls about her face as he bends down to pick up her shield and sword. Handing them to her, taking up his axe.

Onwards they go. 


	179. Weapon (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: "you're a weapon and weapons don't weep" (pre-kirkwall Fenris)

He writhes with it. The pain bleeds inside his bones, claws in his skull. Blood bubbles underneath the markings, seeps from the edges. He grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut as every inch of him shudders and shakes. Stretching out his hands, his fingers, trying to stop the shaking. He can feel his very skin scream. It burns, it burns, an unquenchable heat that scorches him from the inside out and yet he’s cold – his teeth chattering, shivering, breathing fog. His clothes are soaked through and through with blood sweat, his hair sticks in strands against his forehead. He would give anything to make it stop.

His eyes open when he hears the voice in the hallway, approaching the small room they’ve put him in. The ache mixes with dread. He knows that voice. He knows that voice. Curling into a ball, trying to make himself small, trying to hide in any way he can. “Why have you not risen?” It’s a demand that’s spoken by iron, a demand that stirs the fear in his heart. He does all he can to suppress the howl when a hand wraps around his wrist, tugs hard. He barely feels his arm twisting. He only feels the fire of fingers on his skin, biting into the markings, stabbing into him.

Danarius’s lip curls in disgust once he lets him go, wipes his bloodied hand on his robes. He kneels on the ground before him, this creature so pathetic and weak, and that trembling. He holds his hands to his chest as he slowly turns his gaze upwards, dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. The strike is swift. Stinging against his cheek, and the markings flash a sickly violet. “Never raise your eyes to me,” he tells him. “You will learn your place quickly, slave.”

“Stand up,” Danarius snaps. He does as he asks. His legs will not steady, his spine will not straighten. Lines of lyrium wind his bones, puncture his skin. The ache, the pain, the hurt, the agony and the misery. Shoulders hunched, staring at his own feet as he sways. There’s fog in his eyes, a spinning in his head. He staggers as he struggles to stay upright. “Stand up.” Parts of him flicker, and the blood drips down his hands. Drops fall from his fingers onto the stone below. “Pathetic.” He is failing his master.

That hand around his wrist once again, the fire, the blaze, the burn, the scorch. “There are ways of making you listen.” Danarius says it in a low tone, so close to his ear, and he can hear the sickly smile in his every word. He gets his first taste of magic. It spreads wild through the markings, and the room illuminates with him. He never thought it could be worse. This time, he cannot stop it. The scream is ripped from him as his back twists and arches, hands clenching into fists, head thrown back with the agony of it.

Lightning courses through him, and he knows, he knows – _my master, my master_. It’s what he deserves. He did not obey. The magic crashes into silence and he falls to his knees. Smoke rises from his skin, the smell of burning flesh. The noises tumble from his throat, whimpers and whines, tears dripping down his face. Danarius kneels before him. “You are a weapon. My weapon. And weapons do not weep,” Danarius snarls, his hand in a crushing grip on his jaw, fingers bruising into skin.

“I must give you a name,” he says. His ears ring, and each noise is like a scratch upon stone. The voice fades in and out, in and out, as his vision remains a whitewash. “You will be my little wolf.” Hands still on his face, that terrible ache. “My little wolf.” He just wants it to stop. His body is heavy, weighed down with something he cannot see but can so deeply feel. “My little wolf.” He cannot run. The touch, the hands, the sting and make it stop, please, make it stop.

“Fenris.” White slips into blackness, but the ringing still remains. “Fenris!” Hands on his face, a weight on his body. He gasps and heaves with much needed breath as he forces himself to sit upright. Hair in strands against his forehead, back slick with sweat. Squeezing eyes closed and opening them again, but the world still spins and he cannot – “Fenris, look at me.” Those hands are still on his face. A gentle warmth against the cold of him, thumbs brushing against his cheeks. Squeezing eyes closed and opening them again. Squeezing eyes closed and opening them again.

His shoulders rise and fall with heavy breath and he realizes that she is straddling him. It is her touch on him. He reaches for her with shaking hands, winds into her tunic. Hawke pulls him against her, his head buried against her chest. She holds him tightly, smoothing down wild hair with one hand while the other rubs small circles onto his back. “You’re with me,” she says, “you’re safe.” His hands move upwards, desperately holding to her, his fists shaking against her shoulder blades. He cannot bear to close his eyes again. Every time he does, he sees only that dungeon. “I have you.” Whispering it into his ear, the softest murmur. “You’re safe.”

He struggles to control his breathing, with that terrible rise and fall, to stop the shaking. “Fenris,” she says, “it’s okay. I love you.” Focusing on the heartbeat underneath her ribs. There are no orders. No demands. No master. He is Fenris and he is free. He holds her ever tighter, and the shaking returns in full. Hawke kisses the crown of his head as he begins to weep. “I love you.”


	180. Dishonored (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "can u just imagine hawke and fenris as jess and corvo!!?!???!?!!??????hakwisjwjwiwwjwu" Dishonored AU

Fingertips over cold brick, slow footsteps in shallow water. He keeps to the edges, watches the shadows of the men that pass overhead. Their boots on the creaking wood bridge, looking in the distance and do not know he lurks below them. He tugs the hood down, raises the mask over his face. Breathing through cloth as he continues on his path. Through moss and vine, brush and branch, boots soaked in something far fouler, dried blood still on his tunic. He flattens himself against the wall of the half-sunken castle, a stronghold in the process of crumbling into the sea.

He keeps it close to his chest. He pulls it from the pocket of his jacket, holds it in the palm of his hand. A broken thing of glass and flesh, wood and cold. It still softly beats as it whispers to him. _They took me from you. Do not let them take her too._ She was always fond of saying he would always have her heart. He makes the promise again as he carefully puts it back. They would not have her as well. Reaching out, feeling the markings in his skin shudder and shake. Seeing himself on the edge of the balcony above, clenching his fist.

Water replaced with stone, the wind howls around him from where he stands. The balcony door is broken, half off its hinges. He can see the guards standing at the doors, keeping watch for someone who is already there. He turns on his heel, marches inside. _They know the guards cannot stop you_. A chandelier hangs dangerously from the ceiling, sunlight streaming through the cracks. Staying in the shadows, blinking to where he needs to be. _They are afraid_. As they should be.

He closes the door behind him. Propping a nearby chair underneath the knob, making sure no one can enter. The floor is slanted, sloping towards the waves. _They have left him behind._ It is not the group he expected. There is only one. He stands before the glass windows, his hands clasped behind his back. He is wearing his best, a suit of finest material with his hair slicked back and his shoes freshly shined. He turns his head when he hears him coming down the stairs.

Gulping down the knot in his throat before, “Fenris. We can discuss this.” _Coward_. He does not need her words to know it is true. Dashing forward, a speed his eyes cannot follow, Fenris picks him up by the collar of that fancy suit. Pressing him against the wall, watching as his feet beat uselessly against the brick. “Please,” he chokes out, “I can tell you things.”

“The only thing you will be telling me,” Fenris says with deadly calm, “is where my daughter is.” _They know he will break. They are preparing a trap for you. They will use his death to buy them time_. He’s half in tears, mumbling apologies, coughing at the fist at his throat.

“Where is Bethany?” Roaring it as he throws him to the ground, looming over him as he crawls away. Drawing the sword from his belt as he presses his foot against his chest. Metal touches flesh, nicks blood from his quivering neck.

“The Bone Pit!” He cries, raising his hands in front of his face.

“You helped kill Hawke,” Fenris says as the blade sinks in deeper.

“I di-didn’t!” Hiccupping through tears, “they already hi-hired the assassin before I-I got there!” He wipes the blood from the blade on his pretty suit. He sheathes it back into his belt, begins to walk away. “Aren’t you going to kill me?” He asks it after Fenris’s back. He stops in his tracks, looks over his shoulder.

“Do you want me to?”

“They’ll kill me instead.”

“Then you should probably start running,” Fenris tells him. _When you find the one who killed me_ , she says, _do not let him go_. He will not. It will be the death he enjoys the most. _Keep our baby safe_. Always.


	181. Saving (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "fenhawke "you can’t save people, you can only love them." "  
> angst warning

His blade challenges hers. Metal grinds against lyrium as he pushes upwards, his arms shaking as he struggles to hold his stance. Gritting his teeth, hands wrapped tight around the hilt of his sword. Trying to keep it steady as Meredith’s eyes glow, red like lightning wrapping around her body. His markings ache with having been active for so long. She’s laughing and he can see the static in her mouth, her veins tainted with the lyrium she holds.

There’s so much noise in the background. Shouting, yelling, barked commands and enthusiastic agreement. The remaining mages with their spells – fire in one corner, an explosion there. Barriers and electricity, arcing lightning through the air. They fight the golems which the lyrium has given life, things of bronze and much older blood. There is the stench of death, the foul things that sit in the air, remind them of exactly what they’re fighting for. Fenris only gives attention to the monster in front of him.

She moves with a speed the likes of which he’s never seen before. The markings allow him to see her movements, counter them just in time. He’s slower. Two steps back. Pushing forward. A hard sweep from the right. Foot just there, tip of his sword in stone, catching her blade before it tears him asunder. Upwards again, pressing him back. Three swift strikes meant for his ribs, but he is away in a flash of blue.

Hawke watches him from the corner of her eye. Raising her staff, raising her fist, and pulling it down on top of one of the statues. It kneels under the gravity of her magic, this unseen hand that presses down, metal groaning with the weight of it. Fire does nothing. It only pauses when she throws lightning at it. The other mages share her struggle. They follow her lead, keep them pressed close to the ground for the Templars to approach, to drain whatever magic gives them life. She watches him instead of her other side.

Another statue buries its spiked fist in her belly. Throwing her backwards, gasping as she struggles for air. Mouth gaping, wheezing, heels of her feet kicking against the ground. The stone is cold underneath her head. Staring at the stars above the Gallows, and the hands she has pressed against her gut are warm. Warm and wet, the smell of iron. She’s known this feeling before – the shock that gives way to pain. Then there was only an axe. Now there’s only ruin. She cannot speak, cannot make a sound, still trying to find breath.

She turns her head, tries to see him through clouded vision. Fenris is still locked sword against sword with Meredith. This morning she had woken with him beside her. His hair splayed over the pillow, curled tightly around her. An arm draped over her, the other underneath her and their legs locked together. Mouth slightly open, dreaming peacefully. She had brushed a hand over his cheek, tucked stray wisps of hair behind his ear. Watching as the sunlight played on his face, content to lie there forever. She wanted every morning. She wanted them to have their afternoons in the garden, their evenings in the study. She wanted to listen to his voice as he read to her, wanted to feel his hand in hers.

She wanted to show him all that freedom had to offer, all that he deserved. She wanted to be a part of it. Now she would just settle for him looking at her. Look at her and everything would be alright. Her teeth chatter with a cold no one else can feel. She shivers with it, and keeps her eyes on him. _Look at me, look at me_. She just wants to see his face. Feel his eyes on her. One last time. _Please, please, look at me_.

Meredith does something he does not expect. For a moment, one of her hands leaves the lyrium sword. Reaching out, wrapping around his neck. His own sword clatters against cobble as he wraps his hands around her wrist. His feet dangle off the ground as she lifts him above her. Clawing against her armor as she chokes him. “What do you hope to achieve here elf?” She asks. “Why are you doing this? For the Champion?” She pulls him closer to her face. Enough to see the red not lyrium around the edges of her eyes, the blood that drops down her cheeks.

“Do you love her? Is that why you’d give your life for this? Well, it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? All your love and you could not save her.” She throws him to the ground. Trying to crawl away, pulling himself forward, breathing heavy. Gaze moving up from stone, across the battlefield. Looking for her.

Hawke is unmoving where she lies. Her head is tilted in his direction. One hand outstretched towards him. Her eyes are open. Blue eyes now gray and glassy. “No.” Voice hoarse, red marks that will become bruises on his neck. He should have been there. He could have saved her. He could have held her. He could have told her, he could have told her – all the things he had yet to say. “Hawke,” mumbling her name as he reaches out to her, as his hand clenches into a fist. Forehead against ground, gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes closed. Pushing himself onto hands and knees, trying to go to her.

Meredith’s boot on his back, pressing him back to the ground. Her sword plants itself beside his face as she leans over. “Don’t worry elf,” she tells him, “you’ll join her soon enough.”


	182. Little Details (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "After so long, I had forgotten the little details. But that just meant I got to fall in love all over again."

He has learned to dislike waking alone. For too long he had been spoiled by waking with her in his arms. Her easy smile, a hoarse hello. A gentle kiss as she tucks hair behind his ears. Now her side of the bed is cold, and he is alone. He still has the note she left. Finding it on her pillow, folded neatly, his name written in her flowing script. She had written that she needed to help the Inquisition, that it would be safer for him if he stayed behind. That she couldn’t bear to see anything happen to him, that he was all she had. Forgetting that she was all he had as well.

He has been waiting for her. For months in that small cottage by the water, this place they had chosen to hide from the Chantry and their threatened exalted march. He had enjoyed the sight of her sitting by the lake, blanket over her shoulders, and a hot drink in her hands. Closing her eyes as the sun set, sinking low in the chair, burying her feet in the rough sand. Her faithful mabari at her side, his head on his paws, just as relaxed as she. After all they had been through, they deserved this peace.

Gone as quickly as it had come. They had stood shoulder to shoulder, side by side, hand in hand and watched as green cracked the sky. He had begged her not to go, not to get involved. For a time, he thought she agreed. Then that morning came and she was gone. Day after day, week after week, month after month, he waited for her to return. Again, he wakes alone. Feet on the floor, and Barks raises his head. The mabari is constantly in the way, distressed with her absence as much as Fenris is.

Barks follows him through the cottage, sitting at his chair with round eyes, looking at the toast he’s eating. Fenris gives him the top bit of crust. The dog gobbles it down quickly, then looks for more. Chasing after him when Fenris goes to check the traps, finds that they’ll be having rabbit for dinner. The chores are menial, repetitive, his mind on other things as he works. He reads in the afternoon, lounging on the couch with Barks draped over his legs.

In the evening he does as they once did together. He takes a seat in his chair by the lake, while Barks clambers up into hers. Blanket draped over his shoulders, feet buried in the sand. Elbow on the armrest, chin resting on his knuckles. The last rays of sunlight flicker over the almost still water. He can hear the fogs croak in the distance, the crickets in the rushes. He loved when they would sit here and he would read to her, and she would hang on his every word. It was so much more with her there.

“Fenris.” Half startled by it, leaping out of his chair, turning his face in the direction of the sound. Barks is already off running, leaping circles around her. For a moment, he cannot believe his eyes. Rooted to the spot, he can only look at her, mouth half open. She shifts from one foot to the other, drops the bag from her back to the ground. Knitting her hands together nervously, biting her bottom lip, and slowly lifting her gaze to his. “I’m home,” Hawke says. Her words break the spell he’s under and he takes off into a run, reaching towards her. She welcomes him utterly, breaking into a laugh as he sweeps her up into his arms.

Feet leave ground as he spins her, arms tight around her waist. She clings to him as much as he does to her, the relief in her chest pounding deeply. Squeezing her eyes closed as she wraps her legs around him, arms already around his neck. Half laughing, half crying as he slowly sways with her. Breathing each other in, unwilling to let go. Barks is pawing at his legs, whining to be at her, but they’re still too much wrapped up in the other. Her hand threads through his hair, the other shakes in a fist at his back.

He lets her down slowly, his hands on her face, brushing away the hair. Cupping her face, pressing his forehead against hers. She slowly reaches up, wrapping her hands around his wrists, unable to tear her eyes away from his face. “Don’t you ever leave again,” he tells her sternly as he wipes away her tears with a brush of his thumb. She barely has time to mumble out agreement, a promise, before he’s kissing her.

Oh how he’s missed this. He’d almost forgotten the careful constellation of freckled stars upon her cheeks, the way they pepper her skin so delicately. How bright her eyes could be, so wet with happiness, lit with joy. The way her mouth tastes, the way her lips feel against his. The way she leans against him, molding herself to his shape, ensuring there is no space left between them. Beginning to walk with her, shuffled footsteps, the door to the cottage banging open.

He closes the door to the bedroom, keeping Barks away. He still has a hand at her face, and she is leaning into his touch, pressing a kiss to his palm. “I missed you,” she says. “You have no idea how much I – there’s so much I need to tell you.” He’s been cutting his own hair. She twists a strand between her fingers, smiles at the choppiness of it. There are dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping well. She’s missed the sight of those two freckles on his chin, how his expression can be so soft. Looking at her like a lost man found, love pooling in the green. “But… later.”

He pulls the cloak from her shoulders, undoes the belt at her tunic. Button after button, slowly unveiling every inch. He’s seen her many times before, but this time she is shyer. Gooseflesh rippling over her in the cold, a hand at the elbow of her other arm, shifting her stance. He’s only looking at her, brushing fingers over the newer scars, looking to her for explanation. “Venatori,” she says at one. “Pride demon,” at another. He works his way from head to toe, until he’s kneeling before her.

Wrapping his arms around her, his head at her belly, holding her tightly as she winds her hands through his hair. Scratching lightly, smiling when he kisses her, looks upwards. His hands trail from her waist down the back of her legs, and back up again. “Hawke.” His voice is rough, cracked, still trying to grasp the fact that she is back and that she is here and she is his once again. She pulls him to his feet, explores him the same way he did her. Fingertips tracing the edges of markings, kisses following her touch.

They would talk later. Long into the night over a lit candle and warm drinks, Barks at their feet. Talking about castles and demons, Wardens and songs. Of Varric and the Inquisitor, of the Chargers and of Orlais. Talk until voices are parched and hoarse, until they can’t keep their eyes open. But now, now is the time to remember each other. Find all the things they once used to know and reacquaint themselves. Now is the time to hold each other, hand in hand. A kiss to his shoulder, another to her collarbone.

Whispering all the things they missed. All the things they need. “I love you,” she tells him. His face brushes against hers, closing their eyes. Their noses rub together, foreheads pressed against one another. Legs wound tightly together, clinging to each other, unable to let go.


	183. Important (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "You're important too"

For the second time in so few days, he knocks at her door. Gamlen and his sour face is quickly shoved aside, Hawke taking his place. Leading him past where Leandra has drawn Gamlen into an argument, where Carver has his arms crossed and shakes his head. Closing the door to the tiny bedroom, the one she shares with Carver, battering her shoulder against it until it finally locks in place. Leaning his head back against the wall, his hand still pressed to his side. The first time he came to her, he expected her to scold him, to send him straight to Anders.

She pulls away his hand, fingertips soaked in blood. The frown forms quickly, lips pursing as she hunches over to take a better look. Guiding him to her bed, he feels it sink underneath his weight. She kneels before him, pulling back the frayed edges of his tunic. “You should have come sooner,” she tells him. She had said the same thing the first time. No questions, simple acceptance, not sending him away.

“Apologies,” he says. She looks away from the wound, up at him. Her eyes go to his, and he looks away. He stares at the dark spots on the wall, at the way the candlelight flickers. He hears her sigh.

“It’s fine Fenris it’s just –” she shakes her head, tugs at his tunic. “This needs to come off.” She places his gauntlets neatly together when he passes them to her. His belt beside them. The breastplate. She stands at his wince, helps ease the tunic off of him. Just like before, she says nothing of the markings. She does not gape, she does not gawk, she does not stare. She remains focused on the slash at his ribs, pressing a wet cloth against it.

She shuffles closer to him, the cloth dropping away. She presses her hand against it, and she does not shy away even as the blood oozes between her fingers. Her other hand settles on the curve of his neck. “Are you ready?” He gives a short nod. The magic blooms underneath her fingertips, swirling and stitching, seeping into bone. He squeezes his eyes closed when his markings react, that burn against her warmth.

“Who was this meant for?” She asks. He opens his eyes to see her looking at his face, a small smile quirking around her lips. His gaze drops to the floor between them.

“Anders.”

“I see.”

“It was important he was not disturbed. Aveline was being overwhelmed on her right side.”

“Be more careful next time,” she says. That hand at his neck moves, fingers tapping at his chin. Raising his head to look at her. Catching his eyes with her, following him when he tries to look away. “You’re important too.”

She digs in a barrel for a shirt that might fit him. It’s more of a bag on him, Carver much larger than him. Leandra is humming as she sews his tunic, neat fingers moving quickly. He picks at the food they have put in front of him while Carver and Hawke argue back at forth. Not argue but – they are smiling as they shove at each other. Gamlen has made himself scarce, and the hovel is much more peaceful without him.

Fenris’s hands knit together in his lap as he watches Hawke. Resting her chin on her hand, laughing as she recounts some wild tale to her mother. Carver butting in with detail of his own heroics, Hawke pushing a gentle fist against his face. This is the second time he comes to her. It will not be the last. She smiles at him across the table, brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. He feels more welcome here than even in the empty mansion.  


	184. Awkward (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: " I came, I saw, I made it awkward. ❜ I'VE NEVER SEEN A MORE CULLEN PROMPT."

He’s still reading over the report when he knocks on the door. He hears her voice, and pushes open the door. Still looking at the damned report as he climbs the stairs, beginning to speak. “Inquisitor, I’ve received word from our allies in Orla _ahhhhh_.” The words turn to ash in his mouth when he finally looks up. She’s wearing naught but a few leathers, sweating and breathing heavy with a staff in her hand, clearly having just been practicing forms. With some strangled noise in his throat he practically falls back down the stairs, closes the door behind him.

Cullen knows the back of his neck is as red as his face. He clutches the report to his chest, now just crumpled paper, and closes his eyes. Going to the nearest wall and lightly tapping his forehead against it again and again. “Andraste preserve me.” She is the Inquisitor and he, and he… and he likes her more than he should in a way that he knows he shouldn’t. He walks across the Great Hall, through the courtyard, back up to his tower. He throws the report on his desk as he sinks into his chair, rubs a hand against his eyes.

It’s already a joke with Leliana. She spotted it far too quickly, the smug smile hanging on her lips at the war table. It was only a matter of time before Josephine realized, or Leliana told her. How long could he hide it from Lavellan? Or, she already knew. If she did, she hadn’t approached him about it. He was her Commander. Meant to be support, someone to rely upon. How could she trust him completely knowing that any opinion might be tangled up in _feelings_?

“Cullen!” The door slams against stone. “Creators but you do walk fast when you feel like it,” she says. Her hair is tied back in a messy bun, some old tunic thrown about her. Sweat still lingers on her brow, a tint of red in her cheeks.

“I’m sorry about earlier, I’d forgotten how touchy humans can be about –”

“No Inquisitor, it is my fault, I should be the one apologizing –” He’s shaking his head as he pushes himself up to stand.

“Cullen if you would let me –”

“It was something that could wait until later and I –”

“Cullen!” She’s laughing as she wraps arms around herself, walks towards the desk. “Perhaps we can both agree to forget about it,” she says as she sits down. Cullen follows her example and slowly lowers himself back down into the chair.

“Ah, yes. I suppose that would be for the best,” he says.

“Now,” Lavellan says, tapping her finger against paper, “you were telling me about our allies from Orlais.” Cullen clears his throat as he picks up the crumbled paper. She looks so at ease, relaxed in the chair, the smile lingering and a certain brightness in her eyes as she watches him.


	185. Courage (Fenris & Merrill)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: " it takes more courage to suffer than to die. ❜ merrill & fenris please?"

Merrill is wiping away the tears with the back of her hand, her chin still wobbling even as she tries not to. She stands away from the rest of the camp, where Hawke and Aveline are talking in low tones around the fire. They’ll find no more help from the Dalish. She looks over her shoulder when she hears his footsteps. “What do you want?” The venom in her words in more than warranted.

“To apologize. What I said –”

“What you said, you meant. You’re only sorry because Hawke told you to be,” she says.

“Hawke did not – Hawke did not tell me to do anything,” Fenris says, his hands clenching into fists. “I said such things in a moment of anger. I said them because – I’ve seen many mothers try to protect their children from blood magic. They made themselves willing sacrifices for power. But that was Tevinter, and you are no magister.”

Merrill’s arms are crossed when she finally turns to look at him. Her cheeks are muddy with red splotches, evidence of tears. “She wasn’t a sacrifice. It should have been _me_. The demon was _my_ choice.”

“It was clear that Marethari did not want you to die.”

“So now I have to suffer without her?”

“It takes more courage to suffer than to die. She wanted you to live for a reason. Do not squander what she has done for you,” he tells her.

“Is that what you tell yourself? About your family? Now that you know are you angry they _squandered_ what you did for them?” Merrill takes a step forward. “You must think yourself so noble, so grand for being their sacrifice.” Fenris takes a step back.

“I only wanted to apologize,” Fenris says in a voice like crushed glass.

“Apology accepted,” Merrill says as she turns back around, “now leave me alone.”


	186. Ferelden Ale (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "you drink too much, you cuss too much and you have questionable morals. you’re everything I ever wanted. ❜"

He opens the door to find her standing there with a grin, holding up two bottles, one in each hand. “I didn’t coin for the job today but I did get something better! Ferelden ale! You need to try something other than that fucking wine,” she says.

“I happen to enjoy that fucking wine,” he tells her as she pushes her way past him, laughing as she slips inside his mansion. He closes the door as she bounds up the stairs, settles herself in on the bench in front of the fire. Tongue between teeth in concentration as she pops off the lid, takes a swig. She holds the bottle close to her chest as she makes an exaggerated moan, looking up at him with knotted brows, a hopeless expression on her face.

“Do you miss it?” he asks as he sits on the bench facing her, “Ferelden?” Hawke cocks her head back and forth as she thinks. Her hands around the neck of the bottle, fingertips playing with the beads of condensation.

“I miss parts of it. I miss the dogs, I miss the ale.” She takes another gulp. “I don’t miss how cold winters could be, or how it smelt like shit in spring. I don’t think I’d go back unless I had to, if that’s what you’re asking.” Fenris neatly pops off the lid of his own bottle before taking a small sip. She laughs as his face scrunches together.

“Bitter,” he says.

“I guess I’m used to it,” she says. She reaches downwards, rests the bottle on the floor against her foot. She reaches out, one of her hands slipping over his. “What about you? I see you haven’t left Kirkwall yet.” She’d be going into the deep roads soon, hoping to find her fortune. Something to get their ancestral home back, to protect her from the Templars. Then she would be rooted here, tied up in coin and in land, in the power that comes with nobility.

“There are good reasons to stay,” he tells her as she steals her hand back. She knocks her bottle against his before they take another drink together.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says. She tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear. Her posture is horrible, hunched over with an elbow on her knee as she looks at the fire. Light flickers off her face, that constellation of freckles, reflecting in the blue of her eyes. Her knuckles are bloodied from bar brawls, and there’s a fresh cut high on her cheek. She’s saving coin but always has a few coppers for drink at the Hanged Man. Extra coppers to buy him one as well.

“As am I,” he says. She looks at him just in time to see the briefest smile, the shyest glance, before he looks away and takes another drink.


	187. The Wolf (Solas x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "you must be lucky to avoid the wolf every time. but the wolf? he only needs enough luck to catch you once. ❜ sollavellan?"

Fingertips over the line of her neck, down her arm. Pressing a kiss against her shoulder. Warm at her back, his breath at her nape. Teeth over flesh, tongue at her skin. Lips over red, her eyes closing as he murmurs affections. Leaning back against him, his arms wrapping around her. A kiss to her temple, pulling the furs ever tighter around them. She smiles just as he does, tilting her head to catch his kiss.

“What is the old Dalish curse? ‘May the Dread Wolf take you?’”

He steals away all she thought she knew. She had fought for her _vallaslin_ , to be worthy of it. All it takes is a moment, a wave of his hand. Thumbs brushing over cheekbones, smiling at bare skin. The softest kiss against her lips, the harder words that come after. She reaches for him, aching to touch and to feel, to know that what is happening is real. He takes another step back. The rain that begins to fall is almost too fitting.

“And so he did.”

Bitter words from a bitter mouth, sweat on her brow and the anger in the downturn of her lips. Hunched over, wracked with pain, blood dripping from the ruins of her hand. Clutching at her arm, trying to stop the ache, the pain, the agony not of the anchor. He has the decency to look away, to close his eyes, to clench his hands into fists. There’s no apology he can give. He’d rather her wrath than her tears, the rage over sorrow. He deserves her anger. She does not deserve her sadness.


	188. Dogs (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Prompt for Fenris and mabari interactions. Doggo lays on Fenris, or tries to sit on his lap, face kisses."

He raises an eyebrow when paws appear on the counter. Barks looks up at him, stub of a tail wagging, panting happily. “No,” he tells him, looking away from the dog as he continues to chop. A small whine before the click of his paws hit the floor, Barks sitting practically on top of his feet. Another begging whine, the press of his face against Fenris’s legs. He shakes his head, continues at his task. The potatoes are easy enough, salted and spiced, joining the meat in the pan. Barks pays rapt attention when Fenris sets his plate, seats himself at the table.

“You’ve already eaten,” he tells the dog, who continues without shame to stare at the steaming food on his plate. A head on his thigh, sad eyes looking up at him as he eats. “I will not reward you for this.” Despite what he says, eventually a hand settles on the dogs head, lightly scratching at his ears.

Barks bounds after him in the streets of Kirkwall, dusk just beginning to fall. Every walk is very much the same with him keeping tight to Fenris’s heels. Sniffing here and there, head cocking from side to side as he investigates what he thinks important. It’s easy enough, looking after Hawke’s dog. She had come to him half on her knees, mournful she couldn’t take the both of them with her. How could he say no to such a pretty please?

He wakes to slobbering kisses, a tongue half in his ear. He wrestles Barks off of him, groaning at the abruptness of it all. Barks bounces in circles on the bed as Fenris slowly rises to his feet. The dog has far too much energy in the early morning. He moves much slower as Barks winds his way underfoot. He practically trips over him twice. He finally finds a bit of peace when he buries his head into his food, that stub once again moving at a rapid pace.

His afternoons spent reading are haunted by the dog trying to break rules. “You’re not allowed on the couch,” Fenris tells him and his ears flatten as he removes his paws, sulks away. He tries again, and again, until Fenris hears the sigh beneath him, the heavy thud of the dog spreading out on the floor. Nights are much of the same, fighting for space on the bed until he finally sends him to the floor. Somehow, he always wakes with Barks beside him once again.

In the evening, Fenris stretches himself out on the couch. Pillow under his head, book in his hands. Barks has his head on his paws, cracking open one eye occasionally to check on him. The fire crackles peacefully, the glass of wine warm in his belly. The book slowly comes to rest against his chest.

Hawke closes the door carefully behind her. Tongue between teeth, clicking it closed as silently as possible. The fire in the living room as burned low, logs crackling under broken strain. Barks is nestled in between Fenris’s legs, his head on his chest. The book is crumpled on the floor, and Fenris is half hugging the lumbering beast. Hawke covers her mouth with her hand, stifling the giggle, before she makes her way towards them. She gently parts the hair on Fenris’s forehead, pressing a kiss to the space she creates.


	189. Go Away (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “For your prompt month: "When you touch me, my mind is gone. The only words I know are lost inside your body. (right in there.)" Cullen/Lavellan (mage if you like)”

He presses a kiss to her ribs, just there, right above her belly. She squirms underneath his attentions, a smile ghosting across her lips. Reaching downwards, running a hand through his hair. His elbows dig into the mattress, his hands keeping to the side of her body. Resting his cheek against her chest, closing his eyes as he focuses on the beat of her heart. A steady and comforting rhythm, her hand still moving on his head, scratching lightly.

“Cullen,” she says, and he finds it difficult to open his eyes. Even more so to drag himself upwards, curling around her, feeling her nestle into his arms. That smile again in the crook of his neck, mouth against skin, a gentle kiss that travels up his jaw. Nibbling at the corner, giggling quietly against his ear. Pushing herself up, moving to straddle him, her hands planted on his chest. “Cullen.” Leaning forward, brushing lips against lips.

Sweeter than any song, lighter than lyrium. The headaches seem to disappear whenever she is near. Her touch banishes the ache in his bones, the weariness in his blood. He feels bolder, stronger, better when she is by his side. Fingers at his chin, running through his stubble, a thumb tracing the line of his scar. She laughs when he wraps an arm around her waist, the other at her thigh, deftly flipping them. He pins her beneath him, settles his weight down against her.

“We should get up.” He begrudgingly admits it. “They’ll be looking for us soon.”

“You’re the Commander and I am the Inquisitor. We can just tell them to go away,” she says. He softly chuckles against her cheek, brushes hair away from her face. She’s pouting under his gaze, trying to sway him with a glance. It almost works. She huffs when he pulls away from her, sitting at the edge of the bed. Quick as she can, she’s on her knees, arms around his neck. Her chest is warm against his back, and he reaches up with a hand to find one of hers.

“One day,” she says, “this will be over. And then we can stay in bed as long as we like.” Her head against his, closing her eyes as his thumb drifts over her knuckles.

“I’d like that,” he tells her.


	190. Everything's Fine (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Hurt/comfort #16 (“Stop telling me you’re okay”) with fenris/femhawke? You write them so well!"

She turns her head to where the sky should be. Instead there is only stone, and the stone upon that, and upon that – all the layers of earth which hang above them. She runs a hand through choppy hair, squeezes it into a fist at her side. The road before them has caved in, ruin and rock, their most forward path now closed. Hand through her hair, fist at her side. She reaches for her staff whether she realizes it or not, fingertips touching at the wood. Something in her seems to relax, shoulders sagging as they make their way through the side tunnel.

They make camp in one of the many empty spaces, and she sits against a wall. Staff in her hands, head leaning against it, her eyes closed. It’s as though she is listening to it, a music no other can hear, and a voice in the wood. He’s not sure if she actually sleeps. Her eyes are closed but her hands are still drifting, knuckles white, the occasional frown of her brow. She is ready when it is her turn to keep watch, rising to her feet, standing at the entrance of the cave.

She wakes them, a hand on their shoulders, a gentle shake. Varric grunts as he sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He takes a few moments to stand, to stretch, the crack of his back echoing around them. Fire flickers in Hawke’s palm, light upon the rock, leading their way forward. Fenris watches her back. The straight stiffness of it, the line that never bends, the tension etched in every bone and every bump.

Sometimes he imagines he knows what she’s thinking. It’s not hard to see it, not when she stops walking to simply stare into the darkness, that empty look in her eyes. A strength beyond strength, to deliver mercy to her own sibling. A strength he doesn’t know he’d have. He admires her for it, to know what needed to be done, and to do it. No hesitation in her knife, and no time for regret. Their supplies are running low. They needed to find the surface soon.

The fire burns low as they sit around it, the dark circles plainly visible under Hawke’s eyes. Varric rolls over, tries to find what sleep he can. She has the staff out again, rolling it in her hands, rubbing against rock. She’s staring into the flames, looking without really seeing, hollow and silent. “Hawke,” he says. Her eyes immediately snap to him, blinking herself back into reality. She smiles instantly, almost reflexively.

“Are you alright?” He asks quietly, but the words still echo. She looks taken aback, laughs softly, shakes her head.

“I’m fine,” she tells him.

“You do not have to be,” he says. She bites her bottom lip as he pushes himself to stand, moves to sit beside her. Taking the staff from her hands, placing it carefully by their feet. “Do not tell me you’re fine, when you clearly are not. There is no need to pretend with me.” Her eyes go wide as she looks at him, their shoulders almost touching.

“With Carver… it can’t have been easy. I am sorry Hawke,” he says. A hand through her hair, a fist resting on her knee. He’s not quite sure what do to. He had every intention of making her feel better, of taking one burden from her shoulders. His stomach rolls, his chest tightens. He’s making a fool of himself. He places one hand on her back, pats gently (once, twice, three times), before stealing his hand back. Clasping both together in his lap, looking at her from the corner of his eye. The silence is unbearable, only broken when she speaks.

“I don’t want to go back.” Her words are broken with some sort of fear. “I don’t know what to tell my mother. I got another one of her babies killed.” She buries her face in her hands. “This fucking lyrium is like a nail in my skull, constantly being hammered. I can’t think straight,” she says. Pulling her hands away, taking her face in his. Pressing palms over her ears as she looks at him.

“It will be alright.” He doesn’t know if she hears him. She closes her eyes. “It will be alright, Hawke. I’m here.”


	191. Cares (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Fenris/fhawke 19&7 (“Don’t touch me!” & “Because nobody cares about me!”) please :D"

It’s a whisper, a rumor, moving from person to person until it finally reaches Aveline’s ear. She cannot afford sending guards to chase some errant gossip. So she sends it to the only person she can. Hawke is more than eager to investigate, staff on her shoulders, humming as they walk along the Wounded Coast. Wrists resting on wood, fingers tapping out some hidden beat. Closing her eyes, tilting her head back, smiling at the scent of sea air, the last warm breath of afternoon.

Rumor or not, Fenris is agitated. There’s an itch at the base of his spine, slowly coiling its way upwards. Rolling his shoulders, squeezing his hands into fists. Eyes closing for a much different reason, trying to chain the thoughts loose inside his head. The caverns had been empty. Empty until Hadriana. Then the slavers saw new purpose in old hideouts, and the number of missing people in Kirkwall had been steadily rising. Thoughts tumble, his stomach rolls, the guilt tightens around his chest. His fault. His presence had brought Hadriana.

Hawke expects the caverns to be empty. They have been in every other lead they’ve chased down, the cobwebs still clinging to the cells. Varric expects to find slavers to kill – scouts perhaps, maybe even rescue a person or two. Anders thinks they’ll be long gone, leaving behind the sick and wounded who could not walk fast enough. Instead, they find a tomb. Staff clutched tight in her hands as Hawke steps over a long cold body. With a heavy heart, she lights the torches. The fire crackles ever loudly in the silence.

Varric sighs, puts Bianca back on his back. Rubbing at his temple, sighing again and again. “Well,” he says, “that’s that.” Anders is kneeling down beside one of the corpses, frown etched tight across his face. “We should let Aveline know.” Fenris stands at the very center of the room, sword barely held in his hand. Varric and Anders are already heading for the entrance. Hawke bites her bottom lip, steps towards him. The coil has tightened, rigid and straight, and he cannot move.

“Fenris, we should go,” Hawke says, reaching out towards him. Her hand touches his shoulder and the coil snaps.

“Don’t touch me!” He says with a snarl, stepping away from her. Hawke snatches her hand back as though burned, clutching it against her chest.

“There’s nothing we could have done,” she tells him.

“We should have been here sooner,” he stalks towards her, the anger plain in his throat, “Aveline should have come the moment there was word!”

“No one could confirm it. She’s busy enough as it is dealing with the city,” Hawke says.

“Lies.” He says it as he turns away from her, sword finally slipping from his grasp, rattling against stone. “It is because they are slaves. Slaves are nothing.” He moves to bend down to pick up his sword. He goes to his knees instead. Bending over, picking up a bloody doll. A child’s plaything. “No one cares.” Hawke slowly lowers her staff to the ground.

He flinches at first, when he feels her hands on his shoulders. Pausing for a moment, a moment more, before she moves again. Wrapping her arms around his neck, her chest pressed against his back. Warm and holding fast, the bite of his gauntlets pressing into the doll. Her head beside his, nosing gently against his temple. “We care Fenris. I care. About them, about y-” she stops herself. “We’ll find them next time. This won’t happen again.”

He places the doll back down, not on stone, but in the hands of its owner. He reaches up, wraps a hand around one of Hawke’s wrists. He lets her breathing lead him, calm him, guiding back to some semblance of normalcy. Varric and Anders exchange glances, but do not ask, when they finally join them.

Fenris crosses his arms and waits for Hawke outside of Aveline’s office. Hawke doesn’t understand. Not completely. How could she when he won’t tell her what he thinks ( _his fault, his fault_ )? She doesn’t know, but she guesses. She does enough. She cares. She smiles at him when they’re finally done, as she closes the door behind her.


	192. Nightmares (Isabela x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Male Hawke/Isabela prompts 4,12,13,18 (“How long has it been since you’ve slept?” & “I heard you scream. Nightmares again?” & “Hey, just look at me. Breathe” & “Why didn’t you tell me?”)"

Quill scratching against parchment, hard noises that fight against the low flicker of the candle. He’s hunched over the desk, writing furiously, that knot stubbornly stuck between his brows. The curtains rustle with a late breeze, stars blotting out the heavens. Hawke doesn’t look away from what he’s writing, doesn’t move, simply says, “There is a door.” Isabela rolls her eyes as she hops over the railing of the balcony.

“How do you always know?” She asks as she slides her arms over his shoulders, around his neck, peering down at what he’s writing. The slightest smile quirks at the edge of his lips.

“The vines give you away.”

“Damned things.” Fingers tapping over his chest, down his arm, stilling his writing hand. “How long has it been since you’ve slept?” She asks, plucking away the quill. Twirling it in her fingers as she dances away from Hawke and the desk. He turns in his chair, an arm over the back of it, watching as she settles herself against the bed post. Smiling as she brushes the feathered part over her lips.

“Are you suggesting something?” He quickly stands, moves to her, head close to hers and a hand on her hip.

“I’m suggesting _sleep_ ,” she says, tapping his nose with the quill, before throwing it to the floor. Hands on his shoulders, turning him sharply, pushing him onto the bed. She promptly throws herself onto the bed next to him, lying on her side with her head propped up on her hand, elbow in the mattress. Tapping a finger to the spot beside her, smiling triumphantly as he positions himself the way she wants.

How long had it been since he slept? He hadn’t felt it while he was concentrating on the letter, but he feels it now. Eyelids suddenly heavy, a weight unbearable, the blankets smothering and warm. Isabela’s touch drifting over him, fingers curling in his beard, twisting a lock of hair between her fingers. He tries, he does, to stay awake. But sleep claims him, and so do the dreams.

He doesn’t know what time it is, where he is, only that there’s something on top of him, something else shaking him. “Wake up!” A sharp voice, followed by a sharper slap. Taking that weight by the arms, throwing it to the bed underneath him. Sweat on his brow, soaked on his back, panic in his chest. “Hawke!” She says it sharply, hands on his face. The world slowly comes into focus. Isabela lying beneath him, hair splayed over the pillow, looking at him with worry plain.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were having the nightmares again?” She demands this while he quickly moves away from her, sitting on the edge of the bed. Cold wood beneath his feet, elbows on his knees, running a hand through still-damp hair. She crawls over to him, kneeling on the bed beside him. Pressing a kiss to his shoulder. A hand moving across his back. Tapping a finger to his chin, turning his face to hers.

“Look at me,” she says, “breathe.” Giving him her own, a kiss that lingers, his face following hers as she pulls away. Seeking more, solace in affection, calm in her touch.

“Sorry,” he murmurs against her lips.

“Maybe next time we do something else before bed,” she says with a smirk, “make you dream of something better.” He laughs softly as he takes her into his arms.

“I’ll never say no to that.”


	193. Awful and Good (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "“Oh god, you’re bleeding” for fenhawke?"

Being stuck on the Wounded Coast for a night is never his preference. If you did manage to find a spot with no sand, you’d be left with the small rocks that jab into your backside. The endless noise of waves against the cliff walls, the gulls that call late into the night. Crickets chatter in the tall grass, wind howls and swirls dirt up from the ground. They make camp the best they can, a small fire to not attract attention. They’ve already had enough for one day. Varric is asleep quickly. Isabela follows soon after. Fenris is far more restless.

Instead he wanders around the camp in circles. An easy thing to dismiss, considering it’s his turn on watch. There’s an ache that lingers in his limbs, a deepening tired that seeps into his bones. Eyelids heavy, waiting for the hours to pass until he could wake up Varric. Hawke sits away from the rest of them, leaning against a rock, a hand pressed against her side. Head tilted back, eyes closed. He doesn’t think much of it until she pulls her hand away. She looks down, frowns at the blood on her palm. From a distance, so does Fenris.

He closes the distance between them, stands over her. In the pale night, he had not noticed the dark circles under her eyes or the whiteness of her usual peach skin. She is slow to open her eyes, to look up at him. “You’re bleeding.” It’s not a question, simply a statement of fact.

“Well,” she says, “we ran out of potions fighting those bandits, and I’ve drained all my mana. I’m waiting for it to come back and then I’ll be right as rain.” His frown deepens.

“When will your mana return?” He asks as he crosses his arms. They were already vulnerable, drained as they were. If they were ambushed, Hawke would be a dead weight. She was capable, this mage, but foolhardy – reckless. Too often did he find her at his side in the frontlines of battle, a grin on her face as she batted opponents away with her staff. Reckless. He knew this would happen. And yet… Hawke leaves food on his doorstep. Offers company when he found himself in the mood. A smile, a coin in his palm, a kind word. A… friend.

He moves to sit before her, crossing his legs neatly as he works at the buckles on one of his gauntlets. It falls free into the sand and he stretches out his hand to her. “You may draw the lyrium from me. Heal yourself,” he tells her. Hawke’s face twists into confusion until she falls into barking laughter.

“No, Fenris,” she says, “I’m not doing that.”

“You are injured,” he insists. “What if we are attacked?”

“How much does it hurt you?” She finds his gaze, locking her eyes with his. She does not give him a chance to look away. The laughter has left, and her mouth is a thin line. Seriousness in a way he’s never known Hawke to be. He looks away first, his hand falling to his lap.

“I appreciate the offer,” she says quietly. “I’d rather wait. If we’re attacked, I trust you to protect me a little.” She gives him a lopsided smile.

Foolhardy, reckless. Any mage would leap at the chance to fill their reserves.

Hawke closes her eyes, stretches out her legs as she makes herself comfortable. Fenris buckles his gauntlet. Hands knitting together on his lap, studying her as she drifts to sleep. He moves towards her carefully, his hand replacing hers, keeping it tight against the wound, stemming the bleeding. Her head falls to his shoulder, and he jumps slightly in surprise. She does not wake. He does not move his hand, or his shoulder.

Listening to the waves crashing against rock, the gulls, the crickets. The Wounded Coast is awful. He cannot help his gaze that slowly drifts towards her, her face so close to his. He can practically count every freckle. He clears his throat, looks away. The Wounded Coast is awful but Hawke… Hawke is good.


	194. Cry (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "you spoil me with your ask prompts. “No, don’t cry, I hate it when you cry” fenwke, obviously."

Soapy water in the sink, a dish rag in her hands. Staring at one spot on the wall in front of her, turning the cup mindlessly in her hands. She passes it to him without looking, and he dries it, placing it with the others. She has been so lost. Detached and wandering in her own mind for so long now. He asks, but he does not push. He touches, but he does not pull. He lets himself be known. He is here for when she wishes to be found.

A plate. Another cup. It’s the bowl that does her in. Passing without looking, and he isn’t fast enough to catch it. It crashes to the floor between them, pieces breaking and scattering to all corners of the kitchen. They both step back from it, respective towels in hand. Hawke is staring at the remains. Her chin begins to wobble, she presses wet hands to her face. “Hawke,” he says it gently, placing his towel on the counter. Stepping over the pieces as his hands find her shoulders, swallowing her in his embrace.

“It’s not because of a fucking bowl,” she mumbles into his chest. He kisses the crown of her head as her sniffles are muffled by how tightly she leans against him.

“I know it’s not,” he tells her. His thumb rubs small circles against her shoulder blade, feels her shoulders shake. She still has the dish rag, a wet spot on a wet spot.

“I – I’m sorry,” she says.

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” he says. She pushes slightly and he does not hesitate in letting go. She steps back slightly, the palm of her hand against her eyes. Cheeks darkened, nose pink, eyes red rimmed. Throwing the rag into the sink, leaning against the counter. Resting her head against the cabinets above, closing her eyes.

“Yesterday, a child came knocking on _my_ door, asking _me_ to find his mother. Not the Templars, not the Guard, _me_. I walked through Darktown with him, found his mother in a ditch. The pox got her. And I – I didn’t know what to do. She cried all the way to the Chantry,” Hawke says. Pushing herself away from the counter, running a shaking hand through her hair as she paces. Fenris subtly moves, keeps her from walking over any shards. “I have so many fucking letters on my desk, desperate people asking for help. This city –”

“The city asks too much of you,” Fenris says.

“Does it? Really? I’m the _Champion_. Isn’t it my responsibility to look after the people?” She beats a hand against her chest, punctuating every last word. He closes the distance between them, fingers curling against her cheek. Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Taking her face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the last bit of tears.

“You do not have to do this alone,” he reminds her softly.


	195. Sleeping (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "How long has it been since you’ve slept?” Cullen x Lavellan

She’s staring at her palm again. Holding it up above her face, staring into the void. Almost like ivy, twisting and curling, cracks under skin. Branches she cannot touch, a tree she cannot touch. Closing her hand into a fist. The green shines through, like fire in a tent, and she turns her fist. It illuminates bone, the delicate twisting of veins. The life that pumps through her fingertips, infected by the Fade. He reaches out, covers her hand with his.

Pulling it back down against her chest as he moves, his weight partially on her, nose against her temple. Voice hoarse and asking, “have you slept yet?” Rubbing his face against hers, a sloppy kiss against her cheek as he wraps an arm around her and pulls her close. A serial cuddler, this one. She thinks his eyes were open for maybe a moment before they closed again. She nestles against him, listens to his subtle grunts and groans as he repositions himself into something comfortable.

“You haven’t answered my question.” It barely qualifies as a mumble. Smiling before she answers.

“Not yet,” she says. Her hand flat against his chest, a light that illuminates without asking. He’ll be shaving in the morning. She imagines that if he left it for more than a day, he’d have a full beard. His hair is curled and messy, a far cry from what he presents to the others. Something only she gets to see. Mouth slightly open, eyes fully closed. She shifts upwards, presses a kiss to his lips. He reacts only once she’s left. An eye cracks open.

Reaching over to find her, claiming the kiss she stole. His thumb moving in circles on her arm, his hand reaching for hers. Tightly over it, blocking the bloom. “Sleep,” he says. A kiss that trails upwards – to her nose, her forehead, before his head settles back on the pillow. He keeps a vice like grip on her hand, does not allow for her endless staring. “Sleep.” Softer this time, pulling tighter, keeping her closer. His head rests against hers, and she can feel his soft breathing against her forehead.

Countless times she had done this for him. Creating a cocoon of her, an embrace that keeps the thoughts away. She never imagined he’d ever have to do it for her. She closes her eyes, allows herself to be swept away. In the morning they’re shuffled differently, tied haphazardly, legs caught. Her hand is still in his.


	196. La Vie En Rose (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 50's Au for a friends birthday

Arms crossed, pressed against the cold metal of the railing. A half-empty wine glass in her hand, listening to the sounds of music filtering through the balcony doors. Muffled laughter, the chorus of talking voices, glasses clinking together. All intertwined and indistinct, mixing with the smell of smoke and alcohol, floating over the street below. She watches as a couple walks, arm in arm, moving from one street lamp to the next. A slight smile before she straightens herself, takes a sip of wine. She tilts her head skywards, sighs deeply.

“I thought I would find you inside,” he says. Leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed, the smile hinted in the curl of his lips. His eyes move over the line of her back, the long v of her dress. Hair pinned back and high, able to see the freckles around her spine. Watching as she turns to face him, a necklace in the goblet of her throat. Surprise crosses her face, but that soon fades into a smile. Lips painted darkly, that slash of red, he wants nothing more than to kiss her. But this is a game, a give and take, and he’s waiting for her answer.

The doors to the balcony are glass, covered in sheer curtains. They move with the breeze, and she can see all the people talking in groups, the couples that slowly sway together. An impeccable example of the nightlife, an evening among friends. Hawke should have been with them – but something drew her to the stars, the moon and the street, the echoes and the quiet. She reaches out, offers the glass to him. Their fingers brush as he takes it, his eyes never leaving hers as his lips touch where hers had once been. “You’ve come back,” she says.

“As if I could stay away,” Fenris tells her. Give and take. She rewards him with a chuckle as she leans back against the railing. Nails painted red, lashes gloriously dark, framing those blue eyes which glimmer and gleam. He takes another sip before closing the distance between them. Taking the glass from him, finishing the rest of the wine. Perching the glass precariously on the railing as his fingers curl against her cheek. Closing her eyes under his touch, leaning into it, a hand pulling at his jacket. Eyes opening, face tilting upwards. Giving permission to take.

“There you are,” she says as she leans in the doorway. Both startled, moving away from each other and the glass falls. Hawke looks over the railing as it crashes to the sidewalk, splinters into a thousand sparkling pieces. Isabela throws back her head and laughs, crossing her arms. “Good thing those were cheap.” Fenris is by the wall again, a dark cloud settling on his brows. Isabela turns her attentions towards him, gives him a smirk.

“Everyone’s eager to talk to you,” she says, “eager to hear all about your… _conquests_.” Her gaze moves from his feet to his face, licking her lips. Hawke’s eyes narrow dangerously, envious of his attentions, jealous for his company. Fenris runs a hand through his hair, the other settling in his pocket. The tie around his neck is half-pulled, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. She’d forgotten how good he looked in a suit. Isabela looks between them, back and forth, before doubling over laughing. “I’m just joking. _But_ – you’re not allowed to leave without saying goodbye.” She closes the doors as she leaves.

Hawke is instantly moving, pushing herself away from the railing, pressing him against the wall. A hand on his chest, the other at his neck and moving upwards, fingers threading through his hair. Her whole body leans against him, almost an even height thanks to her sharp heels. His hands settle on her hips, run the curve of her body. Up and down, fingers daring to touch skin, running over the bumps of her spine, following the freckles.

Standing straight to his full height, an arm secure around her waist. Tilting her back as he kisses her, tasting the wine that lingers on her lips. She’s breathless when he pulls away, holding her steady. A hand at her cheek, her jaw, her neck, pulling her back again for more. A hand fists at his back, a desperate half hug, wanting all of him and more. She laughs under her breath as she looks at him, her thumb brushing over his lips. She’s made her mark, lipstick on his cheeks.

He waits patiently with a smile as she dabs it away. A softer kiss, a gentler one, and his arm is still around her waist. Taking one of her hands in his, allowing her other to settle on his shoulder. The music is muffled, the words only a distant melody, no words needed between them. Feet find their places as they begin to sway. She sighs contently as she rests her head in the crook of his neck. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, allowing his head to lean against hers. “You’re not allowed to leave again,” she says as he chuckles.

“I remain at your side,” he tells her.


	197. A Moan (Fenris x M!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "A Moan - #7 for Garrett and Fenris

This is the last place he wants to be. Leaning against the wall, eating something expensive that tastes cheap, watching Empress Celene argue determinately with Gaspard. Slamming her fist on that table, inkwells rattling, papers crumbled. The Inquisitor is running somewhere else, armor hidden under her dress, caution written on her brow. He counts the passing stares, the lingering glances, all the curious turning of heads the Orlesian nobles give him. He should have brought Mr. Barks. That would give them something to actually talk about.

Hawke crosses his arms, intently watching the Chantry representatives across the hall. He shouldn’t be here. The Inquisition affords him some protection but parading him around the Winter Palace was no small thing. He still has many enemies. The whole palace feels like a trap to him, some gilded cage made of marble and gold. There’s an itch at his spine, an ache in his legs. Every inch of him is telling him to run, to flee, to leave this place and never come back. He would if he could. But no, he had promised Varric. One last favor before he leaves for Weisshaupt.

He closes his eyes, feels the burning sting of far too little sleep. Rubbing them with his knuckles, sighing as he drags a hand over his face. He opens his eyes slowly, unwillingly, scratching at the chin of his beard. He turns to look when the door to the hall opens. Typically it’s just the Inquisitor busying herself but this time… this _time_. He shouldn’t be here. _He_ shouldn’t be _here_. Hawke is rushing towards the doors, taking him by the arms, backing him out of the hall. Dragging him down the stairs towards a roped off room, pushing open the door and lighting the torch with a flick of his head.

Dirty, full of cobwebs, dark but safe. Hawke’s fingers are still bruising around his arms. “What are you doing there?” Fenris raises an eyebrow.

“Not the greeting I was expecting,” he says. Hawke looks furious for a moment before he crushes his lips against his. Savoring the taste of him, arms wrapping around the elf. Forcing his mouth open, tongue dancing around tongue. Fenris’s long hair – braided no more as the ribbon slips from Hawke’s fingers, allowing him to run his hands through it. Twisting strands beneath his fingers, holding his head close to his. A groan in the back of his throat as they breathe into each other, stealing oxygen, needing each other more than air.

“Better,” Fenris gasps when Hawke finally pulls away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says as he presses his forehead against his.

“Varric wrote to me. He told me you would be here, and then you would be leaving for Weisshaupt. Without me. That’s not going to happen,” he scolds.

“No. It’s too dangerous,” Hawke says roughly.

“Not your decision to make. I am coming with you. You’ve already left me behind once. Not again Hawke, I won’t allow it,” Fenris tells him. He reaches up, takes Hawke’s face in his hands. The dark cloud hanging on his brow slowly gives way to a small smile. Thumbs brush across his cheekbones, delicate fingers curling against his cheeks.

“I’ve missed you,” Fenris says hoarsely, the words broken and cracked in his mouth. “I woke up in our bed, alone, not knowing where you went. I thought – I thought the Templars had come for you before I found your note. A note, Hawke. Aveline stopped me from going after you then, but she could not stop me now. I should be furious with you.”

“But you’re not?” Fenris looks up at him, all the defeat written in Hawke’s face. The dark circles underneath his eyes. He feels thinner, more worn. They’ve been too long without each other.

“Not since – you’re here. With me, Hawke. Hawke,” hand at his neck, pulling him down for another kiss. Wrapping arms around his neck as Hawke takes him into his arms eyes closed and burning for a much different reason than lack of sleep. He’s practically shaking like a leaf. Fenris is wearing one his best tunics, with that rich dark color lined with gold, and Hawke knows every button. Slipping his hands underneath it, desperate to touch, desperate to feel.

“In my left pocket,” Fenris mutters between kisses, and Hawke’s hands are clumsy as he finds the small bottle. Laughing against his lips as Fenris’s hands slip down his back, fist at the ends of Hawke’s own tunic.

“You came prepared,” he says.

“I grew tired of waiting. I have missed you,” he growls back. Going to their knees, Fenris’s back pressed against the wall as he straddles Hawke. Reaching between them to pull away Hawke’s belt, to find the lacings on his trousers. Hawke has clumsy fingers in Fenris’s waistband, tugging his trousers down only as much as needed. Hands at his hips, cupping his ass, pausing for a moment to remove the stopper from the bottle, coat his fingers in oil. Back to the task at hand, one hand tugging him closer, the brushing fingers against Fenris’s entrance.

He groans when he feels Fenris wrap his hand around the base of his cock, feels him press his against him. Both of them are harder than they have any right to be, eager and needy. Wrapping his hand around both of their cocks, stroking them together. Hawke’s fingers are moving slowly and lightly, circling without pushing, feeling the grip Fenris has on them both tighten. “Hawke,” Fenris warns, voice low and husky. “Didn’t I just say I have grown tired of waiting?”

Pressing a finger slowly inside, listening to Fenris’s sudden shuddering exhale. Fenris is still urging him on, but Hawke closes his eyes and forces himself to go slow. He wants to – so _badly_ – but this is Fenris, and he would never hurt him. The elf is wiggling in his lap, grinding his cock against Hawke’s, his hands still maddeningly moving, cock twitching and pre-cum leaking. His trousers, still caught around his legs, are pressing tightly against Hawke, pushing even more, and testing every limit. “Hawke.” Another warning. Shit. Adding another finger, slow now, yes, like that, and then another. Stretching him patiently, swallowing Fenris’s lips in another kiss.

“Hawke.” Yes. His hands settle on his shoulders, squeezing tight as Hawke surges forward, kneeling forward even more, Fenris’s back completely against the wall. Hawke is holding tightly to his ass, spreading him apart, his cock pressing at his slick entrance. Fenris’s jaw clamps together as he pushes inside, another shuddering exhale, wrapping his arms around Hawke’s neck. Moaning as he runs a hand through his hair, breath against his ear, feeling Hawke fill him completely.

“I’m going to move now,” he says.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs. Fuck. Fenris sinks his teeth into the softness of Hawke’s neck as he begins to thrust. There’s something reassuring in sex. A closeness that’s undeniable. Connected, as one, together again at last. He leaves a mark ( _mine, mine, mine_ ) kisses the red that lingers. Hawke is breathing hard, holding Fenris tight. One hand moves between them, wraps around his cock. He feels all of him clench around him, grip rough and desperate, pulling at Hawke’s tunic. His thumb finds the slit that’s weeping pre-cum, smears it down the underside of his shaft before he begins to stroke.

In time with every thrust, making Fenris’s toes curl. “Hawke – I can’t.” Moving faster, pushing as deep as he can. Needing to feel all of him, Fenris throwing his head back, silver locks curling around his neck. Pulling at a fistful of Hawke’s hair, muffling the moan with a kiss. Under his attentions, he cums, spilling his seed onto Hawke’s tunic, onto his hand. Hawke is quick to follow, unable to last any longer, the ragged groan ripped from his throat.

They do not move, do not part, breathing heavily in sync with each other. Fenris’s arms are wrapped around him, head buried in the crook of his neck. Hawke holds him with equal fierceness, breathing in the scent of him, the scent of sex. “We’ve ruined your fancy outfit,” Fenris says, and it breaks the silence. The laughter begins haltingly, but soon it is bursting out of Hawke, tears at the corner of his eyes, holding his lover close.


	198. Still Want (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Confession - #20 for FenHawke"

“Shit!” She reels backwards, stumbling steps, hands over her face. The anger is in the frown of her brow, the blood that seeps from her nose. Iron taste in her mouth, lip split and come morning her eye will be blackened. Pulling back her hands, blood in her palms, hands moving back into fists. Rushing towards the man opposite her, grabbing at his shirt, burying her fist into his face. Again and again until he’s falling backwards, and she’s going down with him.

He’s trying to shield his face but she’s screaming bloody murder as she holds him down, continues to punch. “Hawke,” Aveline thunders, “enough!” Arms hooked under hers, lifting her up off the floor, off of him. Holding her back with hands on her shoulders, as Hawke is still trying to rush towards him, her teeth gritted in place. Aveline rolls her eyes, shoves her towards Fenris. “Take her home.” It’s the voice she uses with her recruits, her guard, the one you can’t ignore, the one where you feel the command in your very bones.

Everyone else in the Hanged Man is on their feet, cheering with bottles and mugs lifted in air, laughing and singing their Champion’s praises. Drunken fools. Fenris has to haul Hawke away, pushing her out the door. She goes flying out into the streets, still swearing as she prods at her tender nose. Not broken. “He deserves worse,” she tells him. He only shakes his head, continues to guide her back towards Hightown. Not to her estate, no Leandra would throw a fit seeing her in that state, but to his mansion.

She’s restless as she sits on his desk, a leg bouncing on the chair. Looking upwards at that hole in his roof, towards the stars. Fenris wipes the blood from her face with a dampened cloth. Brushing back wet locks of hair, concentration written on his face as he does his best to clean it without hurting her. She hisses when he accidentally touches her lip, and he mutters a quick apology. Holding her chin in his hands, scrutinizing every detail.

“You should see Anders,” he tells her, but she only shrugs. He drops the cloth back into the bucket of water, muddy with red. Her leg is still bouncing, her hands clutched at her knees. “Why were you even fighting?” For the first time since they arrived, she looks at him.

“He said things. About you. And me. About you and me… together.” She says the words mechanically, hollow, statement of fact. Staring down at bloodied knuckles, frowning as her fingers bruise into her knees. Bounce, bounce, bounce. A nervous tick, a sign of restless anger. It’s still rolling underneath her ribs, red still blurring her vision. He chases it away with a sigh, a simple finger on her leg. She still instantly, hunching over, wrapping arms around herself.

“You could have simply informed him that we are not together,” he says quietly, his hand dropping to his side.

“Yeah.” She rests her head on her knees. “But I still want us to be.” He leans against the desk beside her, rubs his eyes. She turns her head slightly to look at him. “Do you still want us to be?” It’s barely audible, but his ears twitch. He pulls at the red wrapped around his wrist.


	199. Branch (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I’m at the hospital”, fenhawke modern au please :D

[ **Aveline** :] _Hawke is in the hospital._

[ **Aveline** :] _You should come now._

He stares at the messages on his phone. Standing still, silence bleating into his eardrums. He can feel every rib, lungs emptying of air, that dreadful pounding. There’s a sudden cold sweat on his back, the chill deep in his spine. The screen goes dark and still his thumb hovers over the screen, that keyboard, unable to type. Staring at it without seeing anything, thoughts racing back and forth. The panic thrums, the worry swells. Suddenly lighting back to life, rumbling in his hand, a singular bell, the alert of a new message.

[ **Aveline** :] _She needs you_.

He’s running immediately, out the door and to the car, keys shaking in his hand as he turns the ignition. Bursting through the emergency room doors, racing through white and clinical hallways. The text with her room number on his screen, moving quickly from door to door. He finds Aveline in the hallway, leaning against a wall, a styrofoam cup in her hands. She looks up when she hears him coming, pushes herself up to stand. She’s starting to greet him, but he’s not listening, pushing open the door to the room.

“Fenris! Look at my sweet cast!” Hawke is sitting up in the bed, a grin spread wide across her face. Gesturing down at her leg, giving him a wink and a thumbs up. His legs wobble, his knees go weak, and he stumbles towards her bed, swallowing her in a deep embrace. “Oh, hey,” she says, taken off guard, patting his back gently. “You okay?”

Closing his eyes as he steadies his breathing, clutching her tightly. Running a hand through her hair, burying his face in the crook of her neck. Breathing her in, the solid shape of her, able to touch and feel. He finally detaches himself from her, his hands still on her shoulders. “Aveline texted me like you were dying,” he tells her. Hawke’s eyebrows shoot skyward and then she bursts into laughter.

“Sorry! My phone ran out of power. Maker’s breath, I forgot that woman texts like she’s an unfeeling brick,” Hawke says, reaching up towards him. She pulls him into the bed beside her, snuggles against him.

“So do you want to sign my cast?”

“Hawke.”

“Seriously, it’s a huge honor.”

“ _Hawke_.”

“Okay, okay, I fell out of a tree. Mr Barks really wanted that specific branch though.”

“ _Festis bei umo canavarum_.”


	200. The Missing (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @LauraConnolly on AO3: FenHawke - Post-adamant before Hawke goes to Weisshupt Fenris appears with their kid (age up to you I imagine a toddler being carried on his back) at Skyhold teary reunion ensues also angry Fenris that she was gonna go to anderfels without them and maybe a comedic comment to the kid from Varric when fenris and hawke inevitably disappear for a private reunion

“You.” His voice thunders across the hall, over sudden hushed voices, and the cacophony outside. He stands in the doorway, holding open the doors, white and wild swirling behind him. He stands as fierce as the storm, all snow and fury, dark clouds on his brow, a snarl at his lip. It takes four guards to close the door again, pushing against heavy and battering winds. She stops mid-step, halfway across the hall, turning her head towards him. Eyes wide, sudden pink in her cheeks.

“You left. With only a note!” Each step punctuates every word, pointing at her as he marches toward her. Varric has his arms crossed, one hand reaching upwards to cover his mouth as he laughs. Prodding her with his shoulder as she stands still as stone.

“You are in _so_ much trouble,” he snickers. It seems to break her out of the spell, Hawke glaring down at the dwarf. She pushes him away with a hand on his face, rushing towards Fenris. The cold is evident in his rosy cheeks, and that nose of his, the snow yet unmelted in his longer hair, dusted on his cloak. She lacks the restraint not to run. Fenris instantly stops walking towards her.

“No. No! I am furious with you, do not – Hawke, I swear –” None of it stops her. She throws her arms around him, wrapping around his neck as she crashes into him. Standing on her toes to crush a kiss against his lips, hands fisting in his cloak. Peppering kiss after kiss, muffled noises in between each one as he tries to speak to her. Her hands move to his face, brushing thumbs over cheekbones, beaming at him, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Then she is moving again, going to his back.

She moves fur and cloak, revealing the tiny face hidden under the many layers. Laughing and crying all at the same time as she slowly takes the sleeping babe in her arms. “She’s gotten so big,” Hawke hoarsely whispers as Fenris turns. His hands on her arms, moving up and down in soothing motions as he presses a kiss to the crown of her head. Hawke is cooing, rubbing a finger against a chubby little cheek. “I’ve missed so much.”

Fenris is running a hand through her hair, tucking a lock behind her ear. Studying her intently, all the dark circles under her eyes, the ribs underneath his fingertips. He should have been here. He should have been here with her, they should have stayed together. They had been apart for too long. Twisting a strand of hair in his fingers, kissing her head once again. Knocking his forehead against hers when she looks up at him, closing his eyes as he takes in her warmth.

“We have missed you,” he tells her. Taking her face in his hands, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. She is warm and wet, salt and lavender, everything he’s ever wanted, ever needed. He had felt her absence keenly, from the cold in the bed to the silence at the table. She haunted every corner of the house when she left, her presence felt although unseen. It made the missing worse, the empty feeling in his chest, the hole where she should have been. It’s slowly starting to fill, from each kiss to every touch, the whispered word and longing looks.

“Hey,” Varric says, “I want to see this baby of yours.” He takes her gently in his arms when Hawke bends down to pass her to him. “I’ll look after her. Now get out of here you two.” A watery laugh escapes Hawke as Fenris brushes the tears away. She takes his hand, squeezes it tight, and pulls him along with her as they leave for her room. Varric grins after them, shakes his head. She’s stirring in his arms, bubbling as her eyes blink open. She looks at him in confusion, as though wondering where her parents have gone.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older kiddo,” Varric says, off to show the Inquisitor their new esteemed guest.


	201. Belief (Varric x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I believe in you.”

Smoke clings to her like she is the fire, all green and grey, wisps of it rising off her skin. She chokes with it, the Fade caught in her lungs. Burdened now with memory, a sacrifice she’ll never forget. The stone is cold underneath her palms, hard under her knees. Pushing herself upwards, every bone and muscle groaning, tilting her head towards the heavens. A sky she knows, stars she can map. The rift behind her hums, sings. It’s a music she can’t bear to hear any longer. Her arm is shaking, the anchor buzzing. She moves to raise her hand, to shut the rift.

“Wait,” he steps forward, shoving through the crowd, “where’s Hawke?”

“I’m sorry Varric,” she says. She wants to scream it, fall to her knees, and beg for his forgiveness. But it’s not the time, it’s not the place. Instead she feels the guilt twist around her spine, squeeze against the ribs. His eyes slowly open with understanding, but soon they’re narrowed by stubbornness. Shaking his head and he’s still walking towards her.

“No. Hawke’s coming. We have just to wait,” he says, a hard iron at the edge of his words. It hides the softer parts, all that desperation, that want. She turns her head, looks over her shoulder. The rift is a glassy mirror, reflecting some other world, blurred and bleak. Faintly, she can see the shape of the demon, that monstrous thing. It comes ever closer. On its own. Without the Champion.

“I’m sorry Varric,” she says again, not knowing what else to say. There’s nothing else to say.

“No. No! Hawke is – she’s going to make it out of there – I believe in – _Hawke_ – please,” the iron rusts, crumbles, breaks. Her hand shakes. The anchor is lustful, full of hunger, and the rift is its feast. It swallows it whole, erasing any trace of it from this world. “No!”

The cheers rise all across Adamant. Warden and Inquisition alike, arm in arm, hollering out hoarse voice. They begin to crowd toward her, arms outstretch, reaching, wanting a glimpse of the Inquisitor. They hide him, clutching to his crossbow, lost in the sudden swell of bodies. She loses sight of him. She doesn’t know if she’ll see him again.

She’s killed the Champion. She’s killed his Hawke.


	202. Absinthe (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I like my women like I like my absinthe: bitter and intoxicating." This may be wildly specific, but I always wonder how Isabela and F!Hawke's relationship changes after Fenris leaves. You're the only one who could do it justice :p

“She’s a skeptic now.” He turns to look at her, arms crossed and leaning against the wall. She’s almost an exact mirror, but maybe more relaxed, something easier in her stance. She doesn’t turn to face him, no, she’s still watching Hawke. Speaking to some noble or another, some unreadable expression on her face. She seems a blank slate, an unwritten book, and they fill her with whatever they want her to say.

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“Everyone wants a slice of her,” Isabela says, “and they’ll say anything to get it.” Lady Amell. Coin and estate to her name, enough to catch anyone’s attention. They stop her on the streets and puff out their chests like preening peacocks. Try to make themselves more appealing. The words roll easy off their tongues, untangled in their mouths, practiced silk and flattery. Hawke takes it all in, regurgitates it back, but Fenris can see her smile is just as fake as theirs. They could never have her. Could they?

“And what do you want from her?” He asks Isabela. At this, she does turn to him, eyebrow raising, a grin spreading across her face.

“Me? I don’t want anything,” she says.

“Why do I not believe you?” he asks dryly. She throws back her head and laughs, golden necklace in the goblet of her throat sparkling, each small bauble bouncing with each breath. Hawke briefly looks at them, caught by the sound of true laughter, the smile faltering. It quickly solidifies as the nobleman clears his throat, and she turns back to him.

Hawke has her hands clasped together behind her back, and she’s leaning in slightly. Good at the game, makes it seem like she actually wants to listen. They believe this act, this fantasy, and she does nothing to dissuade them. Perhaps she does it because she knows her mother would be cross if she snubbed Kirkwall’s nobility. Perhaps she does it because Varric tells her constantly that allies in high places would be a good thing to have. Even with her money, a mage is never safe. Or perhaps none of that at all. “She’s good at this,” Isabela says. “Fits right in.”

Head turning towards him, tongue playing at the inside of her lip ring. “You stand out a little more,” she says. He gives her only a single grunt, the frown sitting heavy on his brows. She mocks them, those noblemen, with a “blah, blah, blah” and gesture of her hand.

“Only action will work on our girl now,” she says. She smirks as her eyes drop to his wrist. He covers her token instinctively with his other hand. “You know, red always has looked good on me.” He looks up, startled, when she speaks. She’s joking. Only joking. Still, the jealousy rankles in his chest, tightens around something he’s trying to keep Hawke from. She’s laughing as she pushes herself away from the wall, goes to stand behind Hawke.

Her head on her shoulder, wrapping arms around her waist. Saying something to the noblemen, shooing them away as Hawke struggles to hide her laughter. She’s dragging Hawke backwards, swaying in her arms, head to head. Hawke reaches up, fondly running a hand through Isabela’s hair. A true smile on her face, soft words spoken to the pirate. “Can I stay at your place tonight?” Isabela asks.

“I don’t see why not,” Hawke tells her, as she twists in Isabela’s grasp. Swiftly kneeling down, catching her off guard as Hawke throws her over her shoulder. Isabela giggles with delight, sticks out her tongue at Fenris as Hawke hauls her away. Later that evening, she appears at the Hawke estate with a bottle of wine in one hand, a jug of ale in the other and a smile in between.

While Hawke makes herself comfortable on the couch, Isabela sits on the floor between her legs. She’s absentmindedly playing with her nest of hair, little braids here and there, and sips of wine to fill the silence. “You know,” Isabela says, “he’s still _pining_ for you.”

“I know,” she says.

“It’s adorable, if not a little pathetic.”

“Izzy.”

“I know, I know.” Tilting her head back, looking at Hawke. Pursed lips and hard lines, thoughts elsewhere. “Maybe I should distract him,” she says slyly. She reaches up, pinches Hawke’s cheeks. Hawke swats her hands away, rubs at the red marks she’s made. Something in their Hawke has hardened, some bitter part untouched by all the rest, anger that makes her eyes burn. She leans over her, catches her face in her hands. Dark strands of hair slip from their place behind her ear. They brush against Isabela, and she cannot look away from that blue. Intensity in her gaze, that fire and thunder, and she thinks her heart might have skipped a beat.

“Isabela,” she says, voice low and husky. Isabela licks her lips. “He doesn’t want you.”

“Oho! So sure.” Isabela twists out of her grasp, climbing on that couch, clambering over Hawke. Straddling her tightly, a hand on her shoulder. Hawke’s hands settle on her waist, leaning back easy to see all of her. Fingers curling at her cheek, tapping at her chin. This is the Hawke she likes best. Not the one who plays games with noblemen, not the one who says what other people want to hear. Here she’s darker wine, sweeter ale, steel and iron, rust in the bloodstream. Saying what she wants to say, mouth full of meaning and promise. “Shall we test it?”

“Do what you want.”

* * *

“You keep staring at me. Is it my eyes again?” Fenris cautiously steps away from her, her careful analyzing. Isabela shrugs, brushes hair over her shoulder.

“You’re very lanky, for an elf. I like lanky.”

“From what I gather, you like a lot of things.” Hawke looks over her shoulder, eyes narrowing in Isabela’s direction.

“Nonsense. But when I see something I like, I go after it.” He half trips over himself in the hurry to get away from the arm she extends, her reaching hand, the fingertips that seek to touch.

“I suggest keeping your distance,” he tells her. She’s still laughing as she bounds away from him, catches up with Hawke. She hooks her arm in hers, presses her face close.

“It seems you were right,” she says. Hawke only rewards her with a sour glance. It only makes her laugh harder.


	203. At Me (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “Look at me! C'mon, don’t do this!” 14 for Fenhawke? <3

She throws back her head and laughs. He can’t help the pleased smile that crosses his face, the chuckle that escapes him. Brushing back stray locks of hair out of his eyes, shyly looking over at her. He still felt guilty over these moments alone with her, but that was slowly fading. Fenris was beginning to relish stealing her away from whatever duty she thought she had as Champion, the tasks those nobles set her to. He reaches out, his fingertips softly brushing against hers, asking permission. She slips her hand into his, smiles brightly at him.

She closes the distance between them, walks closer to him. Side by side, brushing shoulder against shoulder. The sun is beginning to set over Lowtown, the last touches of day streaming through the streets. “I needed this,” she says, “all the words were starting to blur together.” Letter after letter, after letter. There’s still ink on Hawke’s hand, stained at her wrist. Some nights he would find her slouched over her desk, parchment stuck to her cheek. It was just a suggestion, the daily walks, one she eagerly agreed to.

“I can’t wait until there’s a damned Viscount. Maybe then they’ll leave me alone,” she says, a sigh chasing her words. He chuckles again as his hand slips from hers to wrap an arm around her shoulder. Pulling her closer to press a kiss to the crown of her head. “Sometimes I just want to bury my head in the sand. Or at least go hide somewhere.”

“There’s always Kirkwall’s haunted mansion. No noble goes near there,” he says. She gives a single snort of amusement as she winds a hand in his tunic, resting her head on his shoulder. They sway together as they walk.

“Ah yes, lest they risk upsetting the very grumpy ghost,” she says with fake seriousness. “You would hate having me there. You’d throw me out by the second day.”

“I doubt that,” he says. Another snort, but this time she twists out of his grasp, stopping to stand in front of him, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

“Please, can you imagine? I might have to clean the place, Maker forbid. Get rid of some of those skeletons, and the cobwebs. Think of the wine we’d go through!” He’s laughing as he steps forward, reaching towards her to take her face in his hands. She wraps hands around his wrists, smiles as he leans closer. He stops just short of her lips. It’s a sickly _thunk_ , a noise she can’t place, a thing she can’t imagine.

“Fenris?” He’s frowning, dark cloud on his brow, lips are moving but making no sound. “Fenris!” She catches him in her arms as he slumps forward, her arms winding around him. Her hand finds the arrow. Wrapping around it, blood like water slipping through her fingers. Going to her knees, cradling him in her arms.

“You missed the fookin’ Champion, idiot.” They materialize from the shadows. One with the bow drawn, the other with knives. The one who spoke drags a large sword behind him. She wants to scream, but no sound comes out. He’s warm but growing colder, reaching upwards, a hand at her neck. He’s trying to pull himself upwards, gritting his teeth as he looks at the three approaching them.

“Hawke.” He can feel her shaking, her eyes wide as she stares at them. “Look at me.” She mutely follows his command. “Hawke.” She squeezes him tighter. He feels it first, such close proximity to her. That lightning flowing through her veins, the storm in her vision, the thunder that’s soon to follow.

“C’mon love, don’t do this, just give up,” one of them is saying. Fenris closes his eyes, focuses on his breathing. He can feel the magic she’s sending his way, wrapping around his spine, seeping into his skin. Warm, a lover’s touch. She’ll bring him to Anders after this, he knows. She’s not so confident in her healing. She knows what she’s better at. Good at the fire, good at all the things she knows they hate her for. They’re only three. They should have brought an army.


	204. Magic - Part 2 (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "204. LauraConnolly on AO3: No. 2 FenHwake again - Sort of sequel to the other magic sex chapter, Fenris basically begging for Hawke to do it again. Hawke is obviously smug about him liking it but also shows him more tricks like all the things electricity can do - especially internal electricity"
> 
> A sequel to [ this prompt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7304044/chapters/24870246)

He likes seeing her face. The way her eyes close and her eyelashes flutter, the way her mouth opens slightly. That frown between her brows, the ache of desperation and want written so clearly for him. Her hands are fisted tightly in the pillows, knuckles white, back starting to prickle with sweat. Her feet are draped over his ankles, and he’s able to feel each curl and shudder. He runs a hand down her spine, feeling every bump and burrow underneath his fingertips. He wants to see her face. Leaning over her, a hand still on her hip while the other sinks into the mattress, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Hawke.”

Rutting against her, those short, tight thrusts, half of her face pressed against the pillow. Dark locks sweeping across her face, caught in long lashes. Her cheeks are flushed, a pink he knows has also settled in her chest. “Hawke.” Her eyes flutter open, and he leans back to allow her to push herself up. Kneeling into the bed, a hand held to the middle of her chest. Holding her tightly as her back presses against him, as she reaches back to run a hand through his hair. “I want to see you,” he murmurs into the crook of her neck.

She moves, cock slick and covered in her, mourning the sudden loss. She presses a wet kiss to his lips. She lets herself slowly fall backwards, her legs wrapping around his waist, her back against the bed. She’s breathing hard, hands curled against her cheeks, hair splayed over the pillow. She presents herself willingly for him, the Champion so vulnerable and soft, all his. He was right. The flush has settled in her chest, underneath her freckles, nipples hard and darkened with arousal.

Her heels press against his ass, a wordless plea. His hands work against her thighs, press into her hips. And back again, down her legs, watching as she quivers beneath him. Rubbing the underside of his cock against her cunt, he almost thinks he can feel her heartbeat. “Fenris,” she says, “please.” Arms reaching out for him, and he leans forward. His face in her hands, thumbs running over his cheekbones. He wants, he _wants_ –

“Will you do it again?” He asks shyly, his voice low. “Your… magic.” The mischief flickers at the edge of her lips.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says coyly. He frowns only slightly before he reaches between them. Finding her clit with his thumb, touching it in the way that makes her body shudder, her toes curl. The head of him pressing against her entrance, pleasurable pressure, but not inside the way she wants him to be. Hands falling away from him, fisting into the bedsheets. Biting her bottom lip as her head tilts back, breasts shaking with each shudder and heavy breath. “ _Fen_.”

“You want me to beg,” he says. Pulling his cock away from her, his hands settling back on her thighs. “I will not.” She shuffles, sits on the bed, one hand propping her up. Reaching forward, the electricity already sparking between her fingertips. Wrapping a hand around his cock, listening to him groan as she begins to stroke him. A thumb pressing just there, her magic just so. His cock twitches, dripping with pre-cum, balls tightening with the sudden intensity of it all. He half gasps when she pulls her hand away, nestles smugly against the bed, her arms crossed.

“Ask nicely,” she says. Reaching for her wrists, pressing them against the bed, underneath his hands. Flattening himself against her, legs stretching out, his mouth at her neck. Letting go of her to wrap his arms around her, underneath her, his hands holding tight to her shoulders. Grinding against her cunt, until they’re aligned, pressing inside her agonizingly slowly. A sudden intake of breath, a moan that follows each inch. Beginning to fuck her, that same slow tempo, drawing himself all the way out, moving back inside.

“Please Hawke,” he says, kissing the red mark he has left upon her skin. “Please.” Her fingers trace his shoulder blades. Pulling him down even closer, closing her eyes as she lets the magic run through her. He feels it in her feet, in the thighs that press against him, in the belly underneath him, the hands on his back. Every inch of her thrums with it, passes into him. The glow of his markings illuminate the room, and his lips seek hers. His toes dig into the bed, into the sheets, groaning as his hips snap against hers. It blossoms in his chest, blooms in every muscle, seeking out the hurt, the ache, the pain and washing it away. Filling him with her, her warmth, her kindness, her magic, her love.

Her legs tighten around him, listening to him breathe against her ear. Threading a hand through his hair, kissing his cheek. She lets the magic flow, not just from her to him, but lets it fill her as well. She knows he feels it with the sudden groan, whispering her name like a curse or maybe a prayer. Hiding the smug smile against his shoulder, feeling his every thrust grow more insistent. “Hawke, I –” Kiss after kiss after kiss, tracing the shell of his ear.

His forehead pressing against hers, and Maker, she loves seeing his face. That desperate knot that stitches between his brows, the subtle flush in his cheeks. Warm breath, growing faster, mouth open. The knot disappears when he spills his seed, cums inside her, giving way to something like a plea, hopeless and lost, lost with her. He had been keeping himself so steady above her but now his weight truly settles, trying to come back to himself.

Hawke smiles to herself as she holds him tightly, unwilling to let go.


	205. Distracting (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Kiss prompt: Distracting kiss! leaving the pairing open for whatever you want to write!

“More needs to be cut. Properly this time, and properly mended,” the healer says, poking at prodding at Lavellan’s arm. Or, at least, what remains of it. It’s not sorrow she feels this time. Oh, it was all misery and mourning at the last, begging and weeping, please don’t do it. She didn’t feel the axe bury itself in long dead flesh, but she had screamed anyway. The smoking ruin of the anchor, the bleeding green veins. She thought it was done. “Above the elbow this time.” If not for Cullen holding her other hand tightly, she might have punched the healer. Not the healer’s fault, but she has no room for anguish. Anger has taken its place.

Red hot rage, boiling and bubbling, barely contained underneath the surface. From the first, _they’re going to kill me, they’re killing me, they’re killing me, they’re pulling me apart_. Breaking her piece by piece, bit by bit, scraps of flesh for the highest bidder. At first that was the Chantry, then the Inquisition, then the Dread Wolf, and now… there’s hardly anything left. Burning, searing, scorching, burning everything in its path, a dark cloud on her brows and the healer knows. She steps back, casts an uneasy glance at the Commander. “My love,” he murmurs, his lips by her ear, pressing a kiss to her temple. Resting his head gently against hers even as she fumes, his thumb running over her knuckles.

“My love.” The times Cullen is not dressed in his full regalia are rare, far and few in between. He wears simple trousers, a loose tunic. No gloves, no breastplate, no sword, no cloak. The hand not holding hers curling against her cheek, turning her face towards his.

“It needs to be done,” he tells her, a kiss to her forehead, her nose, and her cheeks. “It will only get worse if we leave it.” The ache, the throbbing, the knowing that something was wrong. She could only keep it hidden for so long. Waking up in the middle of the night, teeth gritted, soaked in sweat, clutching at the stump. A red and weeping thing, infected and angry just as much as she. Cullen pulls her in, a hand at the back of her neck, and she gratefully buries her face into his chest.

“When would you like it done Inquisitor?” The healer asks quietly.

“Now. Right now,” she answers. It takes a few minutes for the room to become flooded with people – the mages, and the ones holding the knives. They strap her arm down. Cullen takes her face in his hands.

“I love you,” he tells her fiercely, and he doesn’t give her a chance to reply. Crushing his lips against hers, all mess and desperation, reassurance and worry. She barely feels the metal at her skin, the magic pressing in at all sides. Just him, only him.


	206. Touch (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: from super sappy prompts please “Can I touch you?”

She’s lost sight of him. Fire and chaos, the running, the shouting, and she can’t find him. Frantically looking over the streets, the battlefield, past corpse and ruin, trying to find that slip of silver hair. She turns in time to catch the blade with her staff, sending electricity through metal, taking the Qunari by surprise. He’s stumbling back while she’s moving forward, stretching out her hand and he’s screaming as he burns. Hawke dashes through the streets, finds Aveline with her shield raised, Sebastian and his bow. But not him.

“Hawke we need to move,” Aveline tells her as she cuts down another. Sebastian is running out of arrows and Hawke is only taking stuttering steps, sweat on her brow and heart stammering in her chest.

“Wait!” She shouts over the din, the distant sound of fighting, the crackle of fire and falling buildings. Aveline pushes herself forward, slamming into a Qunari with all her might, standing over him and sinking her sword into his neck. They can only hold it for so long.

“Hawke!” Gritting her teeth, running a hand through her hair. Clenching her fist and squeezing her eyes closed, a half ragged cry escaping her before she turns, goes to help Aveline. Together they clear the street, Sebastian following close behind. Lowtown is more of a mess than she’s ever known, exhausted guards at every turn, bloodstained armor and dripping swords. Haunted eyes that watch them as they pass, staying behind to hold the streets.

She hesitates again at the steps, unable to leave Lowtown behind. “Aveline,” she says, “please.” Aveline stops midstep, looks over her shoulder. Then back again to the battle before them. To Hawke, and her face softens.

“We rest a moment,” she says with a nod. Sebastian immediately crumples to a step, bow beside him, leaning back as he breathes heavy. Aveline and Hawke do not sit. Aveline looks forward, Hawke looks back. Nervous and tense, fear and fearful, knuckles white around her staff. Smoke is rising, and everything is still burning, and she burns with it. Pacing back and forth, and that hammering will not stop, barely able to breathe through tightened rib and panicked lung. She looks up when she hears it.

The scraping of metal against stone, and the sword is barely held in his hands. He’s dragging it behind him, weak and drained, blood in his hair and on his face. She sprints forward, the staff clattering out of her hands, skitters to a halt before him. “Fenris,” she says as she wavers before him, “can I touch you?” The sword slips from his fingers, and all he can give is a nod.

She reaches upwards with hands unsteady, the tremble in every line of her. Fingertips at his face, palms warm, her thumbs running over his cheekbones. He closes his eyes, allows himself to drown in her. Gentle yet wanting, soft and quiet, peace and peaceful. He sinks deeper with each shaking touch, the concern, the worry, the reassurance. She traces the line of his jaw with one hand, follows the curve of his neck, and settles on his shoulder. The other threads through his hair, tenderly pulling him down to her, forehead against forehead. She breathes out a wistful sigh as her own eyes close.

From his shoulder ever downward, from arm to wrist, their hands tangle together. It’s slowly seeping from her, the magic in her veins, seeking out the hurt and bruised, wrapping around bone and muscle. “I thought I’d – you scared me half to death,” the words are ragged and hoarse, barely a whisper that slips from her. “Fen.” Embracing him, holding him, his head resting on her shoulder. He breathes her in, smoke and sweat, lavender and Hawke. Selfish, savoring, his arms slowly making their way around her.

“Hawke,” Aveline says quietly, “we need to go.” They don’t move. Not for a few treasured moments. He squeezes her tighter, holds her closer. Then she is reluctantly untangling herself, stepping away, the storm on her brows, the rain in her eyes. One last touch. Curling against his cheek, wiping away a smudge of dirt. He picks up his sword. She carries her staff. They climb the steps together, fight towards the Viscount’s Keep, towards the Arishok.  


	207. Mirrors (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: angst prompt 14 pavellan??? :o “You’re so determined to protect yourself and your feelings, but what about me?”

It’s colder than he thought it might be. It’s not like the cold of winter, but the sort that seeps under skin, worming its way into bone and blood. They walk through a swimming fog, mist that pools at their feet, clings to their ankles. They are real while everything else around them is dreaming. An unnatural sun, a broken sky, the cracked reflection that is the Fade. Mahanon looks over his shoulder at the others, and Dorian gives him a reassuring if weary smile. Walking through ragged rock and broken stone, the twisted paths and winding roads. They reach a high wall, with only one jagged crack to move through.

“Great. A cave. I love caves,” Varric grumbles when he sees it. Cassandra crosses her arms and snorts amusement. Stroud only shrugs. “Not that we have a choice, of course.”

“Best get it over with,” Hawke says as she steps in front of him, disappears inside. One after the other, only enough room to walk in a straight line. Mahanon waits to go last. Dorian goes with him. Fumbling in the darkness, reaching for his hand. Tangled fingers and sweaty palms, feeling the walls bearing down, but there is that light ahead – another corridor. Mahanon reaches out, touches what covers the walls.

“Are these… mirrors?” He murmurs, Dorian’s hand still wrapped around his. With the other he is touching cold glass, and the Mahanon reflected does the same.

“If they’re mirrors, where am I?” Dorian asks as he closes the distance between them. One Mahanon frowns, the other grins. Mahanon snaps his hand back, as though burned, squeezes at Dorian’s hand a little tighter as he continues walking, pulling him along. That other Mahanon follows them.

“Dorian, Dorian, Dorian. You’re calling him _vhenan_?” It’s his voice, but there’s something sicker in it, fouler, the cold Fade personified. “Have you told him yet? No, of course you haven’t. How could you?” It laughs and Mahanon’s insides twist. “You left Ryfon to rot. How quickly you move on. To dearest Dorian.” Mahanon’s steps quicken.

“Remember what you told Ryfon when he was dying? _Ar ju din lath sal, ma vhenan_ ,” it says. Dorian is staring at the back of Mahanon’s skull, at stiff shoulders and a straight back, at ears flattened and panicked steps. “How could you. How could you.” The words follow them as they burst through the other side of the cave, Mahanon’s hand slipping from Dorian’s, moving to wrap arms around himself as he gasps.

“That was… something,” Varric says. They’re all pale, gathered in a group, taking a moment to gather themselves. “You all saw what I did right? Never thought I’d talk to myself like that.”

“We should go,” Mahanon is saying, his knuckles white as his fingers bite into his arm. “We need to get out of here.” Leading them from path to path, demon to demon, standing at the Rift and walking through the other side. Dorian stands in Adamant and waits for Mahanon to follow. The minutes tick by, long seconds, until finally he stumbles through with Hawke. Raising his fist, closing the Rift. Short words spoken to the Wardens and then he is moving, pushing through the crowd, disappearing from the view of all others.

* * *

He sits in his tent, lying in the cot, picking at the feathers which poke through the pillow. He barely hears the tent open. “Who is Ryfon?” Mahanon pushes himself upwards, slowly drags his eyes to look at Dorian standing at the mouth of the tent. Frowning at the question, drawing his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. Looking away from Dorian, chin resting on his knees. Dorian sighs, shakes his head.

“I asked Solas, you know. What it meant. I will not love again, he said. Is that right? Mahanon.” He bites his bottom lip, a lock of hair escaping his messy bun, brushing against his face. Dorian leans down beside him and Mahanon stiffens. “How am I supposed to – tell me who Ryfon is. Who is he to you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Mahanon says as he presses his hands against his face, palms against his eyes, hard enough so that stars appear.

“You’re so determined to protect yourself and your feelings, but what about me?” His shoulders hunch as he listens, ears flattening, drawing into himself. “I’ve been used before,” Dorian says, “I won’t be used again.” Footsteps moving in the other direction, cloth of the tent moving. Mahanon pulls his hands away, blinking his vision back into focus. Dorian is gone.


	208. The Way I (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Also bc I'm replaying DA:O what about F!Warden x Zevran and "the way I feel when I'm with you" or "can I touch you?" Ugh your writing is so good thank you for even considering"

A sky made of leaves, golden green and brilliant red, oak and fir, strong and proud. She stands by a trickling stream, watches the wind travel through the forest. Sunlight filtering through the canopy, casting shapes upon the ground, shadows that shift. Water running over rock and moss, and she’s taking off her boots, stepping in. It’s biting cold but still she stands, sighing as she wraps her arms around herself, closing her eyes and tilting her head upwards.

He walks softly, avoiding brush and branch. Somehow she still knows, she always does. Looking over her shoulder, smiling when she sees him. He doesn’t mind the water, rushing around his boots, steps in without a care. A hand at her hip, wrapping around her waist, while the other follows her elbow to her hand. She leans against him, chest warm against her back, allowing herself to sink into the embrace. Her hair brushes against his cheek, and he lets his head rest on her shoulder.

Such a thing, to be with her. To stand by her side, to know she sees him as equal. Too long had he been a slave to the Crows, willingly lesser. She had taken him by the hand, raised him up. Steadied his footing, given him a voice, allowed him to choose his freedom. His freedom is in her, with her, by her side. She had taken his laughter, his wit, his charm, seen what lurked behind honeyed words and humor. They march towards an impossible goal, this Archdemon, and yet he does not feel doomed. Not like when he was a Crow.

There’s something inexplicable in the way he feels when he’s with her. A pleasure the likes of which he’s never known, such comfortable joy, an ease he’s never felt before. “Zev,” she murmurs, turning in his arms, moving to face him. He links his arms around her waist, and she’s smiling as she reaches upwards to touch his face. Fingertips trace the tattoo, the shape of his face, the curve of his jaw. Thumbs brush over his cheekbones, a kiss light upon his lips. “Zevran.” Hands moving, on his shoulder, at his neck, winding in his hair. She doesn’t let him feel selfish, stealing time with her like this. She makes sure he knows he’s loved.

He reaches for one of her hands, presses a kiss to her knuckles. Tangling their fingers together, holding her hand tightly. “The others are looking for you, mi amor. Zathrian wishes to speak with you,” he tells her. She sighs as she lets go of his hand, stepping out of the stream, moving to collect her boots. Even her steps are angry, impatient, and he hides the smile behind his hand. “Amor.” She turns to see him kneeling down, hands at his side, gesturing at his back. She laughs as she makes her way towards him, allows him to lift her up.

His hands are steady underneath her thighs, and she wraps her arms around his neck. Her boots dangle before him. “Zathrian will have to wait. The evil Crow is stealing you away,” he tells her as he crosses the stream. She chuckles, her breath light at his ear.

“Is it stealing if I go willingly?” She’s plundered and pilfered, looted his heart. He lets her take it willingly, but he thinks he might tell her that later. For now, their laughter echoes in the forest, she sways in his arms, and he is smiling, and he is happy, and he loves her so.


	209. For Once (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Ooooo in bet "you're so determined to protect yourself and your feelings, but what about me?" For Dorian x Lavellan has some high quality angst potential. Or "for once stop pretending like you're okay" :p "

“For once, stop acting like everything is fine,” Dorian says, chasing after him, putting a hand on his shoulder, “stop pretending you’re okay.” Lavellan whirls fiercely, shrugging off his hand. His hands are clenched into fists and strands of hair have come loose from his messy bun. They curl at his cheeks, and Lavellan is looking upwards so fiercely, so hopelessly, red-rimmed and lost.

“It’s just us _amatus_ ,” Dorian says softly, “it’s just me.” Lavellan’s backing away but Dorian is reaching for him, taking his face in his hands and Lavellan is wrapping his hands around his wrists. Such a panicked halla, caught and cornered, captured, trapped.

“Let me go,” he says. “I – I _ca_ \- can’t. I can’t. Dorian.” His voice hitches, breaks, words that stumble in his mouth, twist on his tongue. Knuckles white and hands trembling, legs that barely hold his weight. “Dorian.” Pleading with him, hands over his hands. Dorian closes the space between them.

“I’m not the Inquisition. You have nothing to prove to me,” he tells him. Lavellan’s chin is wobbling, his teeth are gritted. Closing his eyes and trying to turn his head, away from his gaze. Hands on Dorian’s chest, trying to push but pulling closer. “Tell me.” Something in those words breaks him, and Lavellan steps forward. Dorian’s arms slowly wind around him.

“My clan,” he says, “everyone I’ve ever known.” Lavellan’s arms around him as well, fisting into his tunic, holding tightly as he shakes. “They’re gone. They’re dead.” Mumbled and murmured, muffled into Dorian’s chest. “I’m – I’m – ”

“You’re not alone,” Dorian says softly, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.


	210. Sick (Cullen x F!Inquisitor & Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "sick writing prompts: behind closed doors for cullavellan OR stay with me for fenhawke"

“Up! Up! If you don’t raise your shield, you’re going to get your face hacked off,” Cullen shouts at the recruit, one hand on his sword and the other gesturing wildly. “Maker’s breath.” Running a hand through his hair, sighing as he does.

“Be gentle,” she smiles as she steps beside him. He clears his throat, and there’s the most minor flush of pink in his cheeks. He stands taller without knowing, squaring his shoulders without realizing, clenching his jaw without meaning to.

“Inquisitor,” he says with the slightest bow of his head. Lavellan is leaning over the railing, elbow on the wood, and chin resting on her palm. She’s smiling at him, eyes sparkling, before turning to watch the recruits spar.

“His footwork leaves a little to be desired,” she says as she points at one. “He’s moving without thought.” She points at another. Small critiques she shares only with him, knowing he’ll take them to heart. They’ll be a lesson for next time, something to watch for improvement. He listens carefully, keeps a list in his head.

“Enough of this,” she says after a time, “the day is done. Let them rest.” He’s doing as she asks immediately, dismissing them all with a shout and a wave. She walks with her hands clasped behind her back, following him back to his office. He sighs as he collapses in the chair behind his desk. She closes the door carefully, locks it tightly.

Walking around his desk, standing behind him. “How bad is it today?” She asks.

“Not as bad as yesterday,” he tells her. Hands on his shoulders, against his neck. Moving in small circles, working their way up. Gentle fingertips at his temples, cool magic in her touch. He closes his eyes and drowns in the feeling. She’s washing away the pain inch by inch, easing the migraine, soothing the ache. She leans down, kisses the crown of his head.

* * *

A rare thing when Fenris doesn’t come to the door. He knows she’s the only one who knocks. She’s swaying on her feet, looking over her shoulder, before she bends down to pick the lock. It’s far too easy, even for a novice such as her. She makes a mental note to replace all his locks with something better. Closing the door behind her carefully, calling his name as she takes the stairs by two. Hand on the railing, bounding upwards, but the smile on her face soon fades.

“Fenris,” she murmurs as she goes to kneel beside his bed. He’s curled in a ball, clothes discarded, a sheen of sweat on his back. His forehead is soaked with it, the bed sheets thrown back. His face is red, a heat unending, and yet he shivers, an unbearable cold. She brushes back wet locks from his face, and he slowly opens his eyes.

“I’m sorry Hawke,” he says, “I do not think I can come with you today.” She chuckles softly, a laugh that isn’t really a laugh.

“I might have guessed. I’m going to get you fresh blankets, something to drink,” she says. She’s going to stand, starting to walk but he reaches upwards, takes her hand.

“Please,” he says, “stay with me.” She kneels back down instantly.

“I’ll stay,” she tells him. “I’m right here.” He nods, his teeth chattering, closes his eyes once again.


	211. Bad Things (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Might I request 'I do bad things, and I do them very well' with Zevran and f!Mahariel please? I love your FenHawke but that line is so Zevran.

Not many choose to train as an assassin but she asked and how could he resist? She moves neatly, cleanly, elegantly. If she were unskilled, she wouldn’t have beaten him in the first place, killed the rest of the Crows that went with him. Zevran steps back as Mahariel moves forward, dagger turning in her hand, striking against his own. Smirking as she flits to the left, strikes with the right, blow after blow. She’s forcing him back, away from the grassy knoll, into less hospitable spots.

He’s not making it easy for her, not at all, but he is watching, seeing how far she’s willing to push. She never stops in her assault, never once looks away from his blades. Ah, an opening. She is focusing too much on the success, not thinking about sudden failure. He sees his chance. He moves quickly. His legs find her feet, swipe the ground out from under her. With a scattered yelp, she falls backwards.

“That’s cheating,” she says to him, looking up with a frown hanging on her brow, sprawled so in the dirt. Zevran looks almost smug, utterly pleased with himself, and he cannot contain the smile that spreads across his face.

“Ah yes. I do bad things, and I do them very well,” he tells her with an exaggerated and flourishing bow. Without hesitation, faster than he can react to, she swipes her leg at his feet, sends him toppling to the ground with her. He lands utterly ungracefully, and with a surprised “Oomph!” That smug smile is gone, replaced by a look of surprise and shock. She’s immediately throwing back her head and cackling, watching the disgust on his face as he raises his hand and finds it soaked in mud.

She can’t contain herself, helplessly carried along by her amusement. The sly grin curls at his lips. Sinking a hand down deeper, holding a fistful of mud. He lets it fly and watches as the mud slaps the side of her face. Gasping, dripping from her hair to her jaw, mouth slack and open. His turn to laugh, wrapping arms around himself, shoulders shaking.

She pushes herself forward with a ragged cry, hands on his shoulders, pushing him back. Straddling him beneath her as they both sink their hands into the mud, giggling as they fling it at one another. Dripping from head to toe, breathless and happy. He slowly moves to sit up, hands at her waist. Looking up at her, wiping hands at her face and accomplishing nothing, that laughter still on her breath. A different smile than the others that day, warm and soft, admiring her and all she is.

“You are beautiful, _mi amor_ ,” he tells her. She raises an eyebrow, looks down at her mud soaked everything. He reaches upwards, a hand at her neck, pulls her down for a messy kiss. “So beautiful,” he murmurs against her lips.


	212. Stay Away (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I can't stay away from you." Fenhawk

He does it for her. He does it for himself. He leaves because he has to. He doesn’t want to go. He stands outside her bedroom door and clenches his fists, grits his teeth. She asks him not to leave but he knows he cannot stay. He cannot want her, should not need her. Her breath on his ear, hand tangled in his hair, his name on her lips and all he can hear is _his_ words and he is running down the stairs, out the door, into the night. Empty streets and empty stars, taking refuge in a cold place, darker corners, trembling as the gauntlets fall, as the breastplate follows. Curling into a ball, _little wolf_ , and he doesn’t want to be alone but he can’t go back.

Some cutting hurt, an agonizing ache, beating under his ribs, squeezing at his lungs. She won’t forgive him. He wants her to hate him. She will know, in time, that she cannot choose him. He isn’t enough. He isn’t himself. Glass cracked, broken, crumbled and crushed, fragile in a way he thought he could never be. In a way he thought he was done with. He thought he might be happy. Whispered words she spoke but he heard it in a different tongue, saw a different face. Flashes of something he used to know, but no longer remembers. For so long he thought he could be Fenris, not needing what came before. He calls himself a fool.

He can still feel their hands, touching without asking, unwelcome and unwanted, haunting him on quiet nights. She had erased them for so long, kept them at bay, replaced them with a please and a yes, tracing lines he couldn’t see. Now they return, clawing and scratching, taking and taking. A chain that coils around his spine, chokes around his neck, keeps him from her. Distance, time apart, and she will know that he isn’t worthy. That he can’t be what she needs. The days blur, the stars and the sun, and it’s all meaningless.

“I knocked,” she says as she stands at the foot of his bed, “you didn’t answer.” Pushing himself up from sleep, that panic knocking in his veins, the urge to flee in every bone and muscle. “No one’s seen you in weeks. We were worried. I know I’m not – I’m not the person you want to see.” Something twists, an unbearable strain, and he wants to tell her she’s the only one he’s ever wanted, needing to need her, desperate and hopeless.

Instead he tells her, “it is fine,” and his feet touch cold stone. Hawke taps a finger against the bedpost, some unreadable knot between her brows. He does not look at her long, a single glance, and he turns his gaze to the stain on cobble, knuckles white as his fingers bite into bedsheets.

“I have something for you,” she says, “if you want it.” She’s moving away, putting something on his desk. “Please don’t – shut yourself away. You have friends. Family. People who want to see you. Don’t stay away from them because of me.” The urge to flee is still there but it is one to flee to her, to take her in his arms, to beg of her to forgive him. To tell her that he cannot stay away from her. But she is turning, she is walking, she is leaving and he lets her go.

It takes him too long to stand, to take stuttered steps, to see what she has left for him. Red between his fingers, soft and lavender. In his hands, holding it against his chest, pressing it to his face and oh it smells of her, and oh it is warm against his lips. He ties the favor around his wrist, the mark of her, his slash of Hawke, the pieces he clings to. Glass cracked and he must take what’s left and build it into something stronger. Something recognizable. Something of himself.


	213. Care (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: from the angst prompt list? :D “Despite what many think, I am completely capable of taking care of myself.”

There’s a necessary brutality in the kill, savagery in her stroke. She is void of the usual smirk, the grim joviality she shows in every other battle. Drawing the knife from her belt, burying it in the soft flesh of his shoulder, the blade of her staff already in his belly. Forcing him to his knees, to bend before her, to submit. For his part, he is smiling up at her, a bloody grin, laughter gurgling in his throat. “She will come with me,” he says, “we will always be together.”

Fenris can see the static webbing between her fingers, the lightning that’s coursing through her veins. It surges through her staff, burrowing inside of Quentin. Even in death, his glee still lingers. He slumps to the ground, she wipes the knife on his robes, the blade of her staff. Placing the knife back in her belt, knuckles white around the staff. Walking to where she sits, hands folded in her lap, chin at her chest. Hawke puts fingers at her chin, lifts her head. It’s almost as though Leandra is sleeping peacefully.

“We’ll need the guard,” Hawke says, “perhaps a Templar. We don’t know what’s down here.” Her voice is hollow, her face blank. Aveline puts a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, squeezes tight before nodding. She’ll make the arrangements necessary.

“Hawke,” Anders is murmuring, walking towards her, sliding a hand across her back. Hawke shrugs him off, pushes his hand away as she walks towards the exit. She had spared only a single glance for her mother. She didn’t need to see any more.

“I need to talk to Gamlen,” she says as she walks away, her back straight and shoulders square, head held high. Fenris follows after her quietly. He shadows her steps, keeping a distance, never letting her out of his sight. She knows. She doesn’t call out to him, doesn’t say anything as she walks. Simply allows him this small thing. She waits for him at the door of the estate, holds it open for him. Gamlen stands by the fire, expects to see a third with her.

“Where is she? Where is Leandra?” Hawke shakes her head.

“Gone.”

“Gone? Where – how?”

“Does it matter?” Hawke says it so flatly, “she’s gone.” Gamlen moves faster than Fenris thought he could. Hands on Hawke’s shoulders, fingers bruising into her, shaking her roughly.

“ _Gone_? Why didn’t you save her?” Fenris steps forward, pries Gamlen away from her. For a moment, he thinks he might punch him. But no, Gamlen composes himself, hands clenched into fists, storms away. The door slams behind him.

Hawke rests her staff against the stairs, begins the slow climb. Shedding armor as she goes, until she’s in naught but a simple tunic, trousers thrice patched. With a gesture, she lights the fire in her room. Fenris stands in the doorway as she stands with a hand on the mantle, watching the wood burn. Finally she turns to look at him, hollow and quiet. “You should go home.”

“I would like to stay.” He takes a step forward and she frowns.

“I _am_ fine,” she says.

“I would like to stay,” he says and another step, a deeper frown. Backing away from him, wrapping arms around herself, shaking her head.

“Despite what many think, I am completely capable of taking care of myself,” she tells him but he’s still walking, reaching for her, flinching as his fingertips touch her arm.

“I know. I would like to stay.” She is pressing fists against his chest, squirming against the wall, turning her face away from him. Closer still, arms wrapping around her, his head resting against hers. “Hawke,” he says quietly. “Let me stay.” She finally looks at him.

Eyes wide, skittish and caught, trapped in his embrace. Her chin shakes, her lips quiver. The tears well in her eyes. Winding her fists in in his tunic, unable to be still but wanting to hold. “They’re dead. My family is dead. All of them. I couldn’t – I couldn’t save them. I’m – I’m,” she’s saying, stuttering, stammering and desperate, the words choking, twisting on her tongue. Pulling her closer to him, and this is not the Champion, this is his Hawke, and he –

“I would like to stay,” he murmurs softly. He feels her nod against his chest, bury her face in the crook of his neck.

“Please.”


	214. Stay (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hi yes, might I request 19 for pavellan bc after the one for 14 I need the fluff <3 “I can’t stay away from you.”

There’s a story on his back. In the curve of his spine, the bumps of his ribs. The twisting lines that run from the head of him to his feet, vines around bone, tangling over shoulder blades. Delicate things that hide the few bright scars against his skin, the thin lines worn into the core of him. Hair twists against his neck, haphazardly pulled together. Dorian’s fingertips touch at his shoulder, run over his arm. Closing his eyes and moving closer, pressing a kiss to his nape.

Lavellan is evergreen and strawberry sun, pine and oak. Roots anchored to the ground and those vines, that moss, showing the softness, revealing the kindness. Dorian’s chest presses against his back as he curls an arm around him, slipping the other underneath his neck, breathing him in. A hand touches against his, a thumb brushing over his knuckles. Linking their fingers together, palm against palm, and Lavellan pulls him to his lips. A gentle kiss against the back of his hand. Dorian’s eyes open, the smile quirking at the edges of his lips.

Twisting in Dorian’s arms, turning to face him, smiling as he twists the end of Dorian’s mustache between his fingers. Dorian is the desert, heat and bronze, and oh to know that oasis. To drink from a clear spring, to lie in the tall grass under his shade. The green hidden in endless sand, a place only Lavellan can find. He brushes a thumb over his beauty mark, runs a hand through his hair. Pressing forehead against forehead, sharing the same air, the same breath. Dorian touches the top of his spine, finding his way downward, splaying against his back, settling against his hip.

Lavellan’s breath hitches, and oh the satisfaction when the blush colors his cheeks so easily. Nose against nose, finding lip against lip, crushing a kiss against his mouth. Tooth and tongue, holding Dorian’s face in his hands, leg slipping against leg, tangling together. Slowly shifting, Dorian above him, elbows in the mattress, letting his weight fall gently. “You’ve been talking in your sleep,” Dorian tells him in between kisses, Lavellan’s hand at the back of his neck, keeping him close.

“Nothing that scares you away, I hope,” he murmurs. Pausing only to look at him, Dorian’s hands wound on his hair, his thumb moving in circles at Lavellan’s temple. Those eyes, so wide and curious, blinking up at him, tilting his head, leaning into his touch. How could he explain all the tossing, the turning and _please don’t leave me_? Lavellan is already uneasy, a knot forming between his brows in the space of Dorian’s silence. He leans down, kisses the tip of Lavellan’s nose.

“Only frightening things for your enemies,” Dorian chirps, “there’s nothing that scares me.” Lavellan laughs, hands shaking on Dorian’s back, that pink still in his cheeks. “I can’t seem to stay away from you.” The ache when he leaves Skyhold without him. Those long weeks of waiting, unbearable without word, wondering when he’ll see him again. Stealing him away to his room when he returns, the relief in his chest at the first touch, the first embrace, the first word, the first kiss. Knowing that they can’t be the last. Knowing he can’t lose him when he’s in his arms.

Lavellan tilts his face upwards, catches Dorian’s bottom lip between his teeth. Pulling him down, slipping a tongue into his mouth, breathing him in. A hard thing, a desperate thing, perhaps realizing that some of the things he says are truly terrifying. Things he doesn’t know how to say during the day. But they have the night, and they have each other.


	215. Sick Day (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: the "heroes don't take sick days" prompt from the sickfic prompt list for fenhawke?

There’s misery in the madness of being still. Silent and restless, wanting and waiting. She knows the shape of her bed posts too well, every crack and every flaw, the freckles of scattered stain. Too well does she know the way the wind tosses the drapes, from breeze to gale, of raindrops against glass. The ceiling is charted territory, a map too long studied, every hill and every plain. The fire is monotonous, a rolling thing, and no crackle and no pop is any different from the ones she’s heard before. With each passing hour the bed grows more and more cramped, a prison of lessening comfort.

She pushes herself up to sit, and a searing pain makes its way across her middle. Pressing a hand against the bandages, the wound too large for magic to heal. Muscles torn and organs rendered, how could she ever thank Anders for what he had done? The days spent draining every ounce of mana, the nights of fitful sleep by her side. And her, unable to move, unable to speak, helpless and watching, wanting to reach but could not touch. The guilt, for wishing it was Fenris by her side instead. Oh, how it hurts when she thinks of him. In the haze of it all, she thinks he might have cried. That knot between his brows, his beautiful lips in that downturn, the careful and worried way he cradled her in his arms. _I’m sorry Hawke, I am so sorry. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me_.

She pushes past the ache, the agony, breathes a sigh of relief when the pads of her feet touch floorboards. The wood is colder by her bed, the warmth of the fire not quite reaching. She sits there for a moment, on that edge, hands wound in bedsheets and sweat on her brow. Even to just sit up… the effort was enormous. Her hands shake, she grits her teeth, squares her jaw. They call her the Champion of Kirkwall now. Protector of the city. The hero who can’t even leave her bed. Unsteady feet on unsteady legs, giving out under the first step. Clinging to the bedpost, biting her bottom lip and closing her eyes. Ignoring the spasm of pain that sears through her body.

She tries to simply stand. To straighten her spine, to draw herself to full height. Her body will not let her. She stays hunched, as though an old woman, and it almost makes her want to laugh. Her knuckles are white as they hold to that post. The path to the door has nothing to hold onto. One foot in front of the other, shaking step after shaking step. Leaning her head against the door, wrapping her hand around the knob. A shuddering breath of relief but her legs are still wobbling, threatening to give. Instead, she pulls open the door.

Stumbling through it, arms outstretched for the railing, desperate and falling… and it’s his arms that catch her. Bending down, arm under her legs, effortlessly taking her into his arms. Wrapping her arms over his shoulders, burying her head into the crook of his neck. “You are not supposed to leave the bed,” he tells her.

“Fen,” she breathes. “You’re here.” She feels every inch of him stiffen, that clench, fingertips pressing into her skin. He finally sighs, and the rest of him relaxes with it.

“I never left,” he says softly. Bringing a chair to sit outside her door. Arms crossed, feet planted, listening to Anders softly speaking to her inside. He never once heard her voice. He was afraid he would never hear it again. It was Aveline who brought him different clothes, forced him to change. Out of the clothes sticky with Hawke’s blood. Fenris had watched her turn pale in his arms, limp and lifeless, and all he could do was hold her. All he could do was put her on that bed. All he could do was watch Merrill and Anders hover over her. All he could do was wait.

He moves to take her back to her room, feels her hands fist in his tunic. “No, please. Please don’t put me back there,” she says. He thinks for a moment, carries her down the stairs. Gently placing her on the couch in the library, pulling pillows from chairs to prop her up. She’s curled up, watching him through eyes that refuse to remain open. Lighting the fire, going to fetch a blanket. By the time he returns, she’s already asleep. He drapes it over her, pulls it to her shoulders. Gently brushing back that stray lock of hair, tucking it behind her ears. Leaning down, his forehead pressing against hers, closing his eyes. Listening to her breathe, fingers curling at her cheek.


	216. How Funny (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 5 from the Angst Prompts with fenhawke? “How funny. You thought I cared.”

“Fenris has left Kirkwall.” Such a simple statement, an easy string of words that she can’t seem to understand. Her fingers trace the scars underneath the table, from when Isabela had flipped it specifically to write naughty things. Hidden forever underneath oak and spilled ale.

“Oh,” she says. There’s a burn on the left corner, a scorched thing, evidence of Anders trying to show off and missing the mark entirely. The teasing had been merciless, constant comments of his ‘lackluster performance.’

“I’m sorry,” Aveline tells her. Hawke laughs, runs a hand through choppy hair, the other wrapped around her mug. White knuckles but still she laughs and laughs. There’s counted marks at one end, Varric’s work, from when they ran out of parchment. A constant reminder that Isabela owed Hawke five gold, something she’s already accepted she’d never see again.

“What? I don’t care. Fenris is his own man. He can do what he wants,” she says. She thinks she’s going to be sick. There’s a vine that wraps around the leg of the bench, from that night when Merrill finally won, clapped her hands, cheeks pink in joy and even the dead flowers on the windowsill bloomed.

“He didn’t tell you he was leaving, did he?” Hawke shakes her head. She wonders if she should have lied. Perhaps Aveline would have believed her. Maybe then she wouldn’t be giving her a look full of pity. Even Aveline has left her mark in the table, a single crack down the middle of the table from where she had slammed her fist, a statement of her strength.

“He’ll come back,” Aveline says softly. To Kirkwall, maybe. There is no mark for Fenris on the table. To careful, too cautious, a ghost made real. Instead, he’s left his mark in her. Hers remains wrapped around his wrist.


	217. A Door (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Can I get an angsty "nobody cares about me" for Fenhawke?

Bodahn finds her sleeping in the foyer. Back against the door, knees and fists curled by her chest. This is far from the first time, and he knows it will not be the last. He knows better than to wake her. Instead, he drapes the blanket over her, and goes to bed. She does not move, her eyes do not open, not to the blanket or to the sound of footsteps. When the knock comes, her eyes open instantly. Pushing herself up to her feet, hand on the doorknob. Some noble with tears on her face, pleading her case to the Champion. It doesn’t matter what she’s saying, Hawke is already agreeing.

When she comes home, she finds a new stack of letters on her desk. By wasting candle, she reads each and every one, makes notes of things to be done. She collapses in the foyer, back against the door. She wakes to a knock. She comes home to those letters. She sleeps at the door. She wakes to a knock. She comes home to a new stack. She curls by the door. She wakes to a knock. She comes home and reads the letters. She collapses in the foyer, back against the door. She wakes to a knock. She comes home and reads. She sleeps at the door. She wakes to a knock.

“Some second son has gone missing. Likely run off with his lover,” Aveline says to her as they walk through Hightown. “Nonetheless, the family has asked us to find him. We’ll start with his lover’s house, move on from there.” Such a small thing but Hawke is nodding and agreeing.

“We’ll need to draw out the infection,” Anders says to her as she stands beside him in Darktown. “You start from one end, I’ll start from the other.” His hands on a thigh, her hands on an ankle, both of them seeping magic inside the wound. The man is screaming obscenities at them, but Hawke ignores it.

“It’s been leaking awfully,” Merrill says to her as she kneels on the roof of the house in Lowtown. “I couldn’t find anyone else to help!” Hawke swings down the hammer, sets in place the new coverings.

The knock, she stands, hand on the doorknob and her shoulders sag. She’s never wanted him to knock. Maybe she thought he’d be the one to see through it. “I need your help,” Fenris says and Hawke is nodding and Hawke is agreeing.

“What do you need?” She asks and he gestures for her to follow, so she does. She follows him to his mansion, up the stairs.

“Sit,” he says, pointing at the bed and so she does. He takes her staff, leans it against his desk. “Like down,” and so she does. Hands folded over her stomach, tapping fingers against knuckles, looking at him expectantly. He sits on the edge of the bed and she flinches when he twists a stray lock of her hair between his fingers, tucks it behind her ear.

“I know you think no one notices,” he says quietly, “that no one cares.” Why didn’t she notice sooner that he wasn’t wearing his gauntlets? Hands clasped together on his lap, squeezing together, playing with the fraying edges of that red ribbon she gave him just weeks ago. His ears are flattened, twitching slightly, the first way she knew how to tell when he was nervous, when he was anxious. “But I have.” He looks at her, and she bites her bottom lip, closes her eyes and looks away. “No one will look for you here. Sleep.” Then he is standing, then he is leaving. She rolls over onto her stomach, cries into his pillow.


	218. Avoid (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "This is what I was trying to avoid" for Fenhawke?"

From the moment he first met her, he knew this would happen. She had brushed hair behind her ear as she looked down, shyly back up at him, with that smile on her lips. It was hard not to be drawn into her swaggering confidence, to her bright laughter, the way she fought with a carefree joviality and the way she loved the same way. It was hard not to love her back. He could see it in all those around them, the soft glances she attracted, and the loyalty she earned so easily. He thought he could avoid it, avoid her. In this, as in all things, she proved him wrong.

And oh, how quickly she did. Fingers curling against his cheeks, tracing the shell of his ear. A touch life fire, a love to match, her lips pressed against his. Taking her into his arms and memorizing the shape, the feel of her against him. She had taken his face in her hands and told him he was not alone. Not anymore. In the days that followed, there was never one without the other. Hawke and Fenris. Fenris and Hawke. He needed her. He thought she needed him too.

He had begged her not leave. For a time, he thought she would listen. But this was Hawke, and Hawke could never say no to anyone who asked for her help. So when the morning came and she was not in the bed with him, he was not surprised. The most he could hope for was her return.

This, this is what he was trying to avoid. Lying on their bed, Varric’s letter crumpled on the floor, staring at her empty side. Running a hand over her pillow. He never wanted this. From the moment he first met her, he knew that Hawke would never be one to die in her bed. He knew that Hawke would die fighting. He just thought he would be at her side.


	219. Moved On (Unrequited Fenris x F!Hawke & Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: F!hawke/fenris 54&15 aaanngst pls (“Please don’t shut me out.” & “It doesn’t matter. You’ve moved on and I have to be okay with that.”)

He knows he is not meant to see it. He should move on but his steps drag to a stop, an unmoving weight on his shoulders, in his chest. A hand against the white stone of Hightown, rough and wet underneath his fingertips. Rain drips from his hair, rolls down his face. His teeth chatter with the cold of it, soaked through and through, from cloth to skin to bone. Clouds darkly overhead, blotting out the sun, making the afternoon seem almost night. No others dare step foot outside their door. It is only cruel coincidence that he was out. Fenris knows he is not meant to see it. He knows it is supposed to mean nothing to him.

Standing at her door, the two of them. They too are rain drenched, drowned and sodden. He has his hands on her arms, moving slowly up and down. Her hands are fisted against his chest, shaking her head and speaking words Fenris cannot hear. Looking up at him, her face flushed with cold and whatever passion is tied up in her words. Anders is smiling, chuckling under his breath, a single drop rolling off his nose and onto her face as he leans forward. Her hands slowly move, over his shoulders, fingers in his hair.

Fenris knows what it’s like to kiss Hawke. To hold her in your arms, to feel her fingers on your skin. A heat, a warmth, the taste and feel, a care like no other. Holding his face in her hands, the ribbon from his hair tangled in her fingers. He’s laughing again as he takes it from her, wraps it around her wrist. He runs a thumb over her cheekbone, palm against her cheek and oh how he looks at her, how he melts, how he crumbles, how she takes all the pieces and holds them together. Fenris can only stare at the blue cloth around her wrist.

It is done. He had known of all her glances, those longing looks, sad and forlorn. He had wished for her to find another. Someone to give her what she needs, to return all that she offers. Someone who would not hurt her. He had thought it would be better for her if she hated him. He could handle hate. But hate was never Hawke and somehow that hurt worse. The knowing he could extend his hand and she would always be there to take it. Now, the dream is done. The wishing is over. He let her go, and she has moved on. Just as he wanted.

Fenris walks back the way he came. Standing on the steps to Lowtown, and his hand is trembling on that stone. Leaning against the wall as he sinks downwards, sitting on those steps. Untying the knot of the token around his wrist, clutching it against his chest. Head down and the rain continues to fall. A cacophony of messy silence, the thundering torrent, and the clap of lightning. No one hears him.

He knows he was not meant to see it. They do not make it obvious. Laughing at the Hanged Man, sitting on opposite sides of the table. He knows the ache, the drum of what remains of him, is not fair to her. He tries, but he cannot fake smiles like the others. He wants to run when Hawke shifts, moves to sit by him. “Are you alright?” She asks and he hears the words but he cannot look at her face. He simply nods.

“You know you don’t have to shut me out,” she says softly, meant for his ears only, her hand drifting over his, “I’m here for you.” The ribbon is hidden under her sleeve. He pulls his hand away.


	220. Weight (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: okay your "this is what I was trying to avoid one" was SO GOOD but also destroyed me emotionally, so can I request something dramatic but happy for fenhawke?

He can still feel her weight. Leaning over him, sweeping away stray locks of hair from his forehead. Warm fingertips, thumb brushing against his cheekbone. Her lips against his, the taste of her on his tongue. It slips away as he wakes, opens his eyes to the drapes swaying in the breeze, the flicker of sunlight on the ceiling. A ghost that haunts his every dream, the specter at his back. As he stands in the kitchen, pouring boiling water from kettle to cup, he thinks he can feel her hands on his shoulders, her arms wrapping around his waist, her kiss at his nape. She refuses to leave him be.

He knows he cannot avoid her. He has taken careful care to be close yet distant, a crevasse between them which they have not yet found a way to cross. Fenris dresses, ties the clasps of his gauntlets. Only then does he reach for it, holds it in his hand. That slash of red which he wraps around his wrist, that last flag of beaten hope. Some distant belief in him that he could be himself, whole and unbroken. For her, it is a wish, where he might find his way back to her. How Hawke keeps such patience with him, he does not know.

She is waiting with the others, leaning against a wall, her staff resting in her arms. She is chatting cheerfully, a grin on her face, brushing hair behind her ears. She spots him out of the corner of her eye, turns to him with a smile. This, this is what he’s trying to avoid. The stutter in his steps, the missing beat in his chest as her eyes catch his. The phantom of her, of all they had, coiling around his spine, choking around his neck. He wants her, but there’s that fear striking in the core of him. The fear he wants her the same as he used to want another. A chain he cannot give, one he is still trying to break.

He cannot afford to lean on her, to tell her what haunts him. Too much of himself is tied up in the life of another, and he does not want to paint brutal strokes upon her ghost. She is not Danarius and he knows the love is different, but so much feels the same. It is what drives him away, keeps that gap unable to be bridged. Hawke is pushing herself away from the wall, moving to greet him away from the others. The staff and her hands behind her back and “good morning,” she says in those soft tones. He gives her a nod in return, and there’s a frown twitching at her brows.

“Are you alright?” She asks as she reaches for him, fingertips at his arm, but he pulls away before she can take hold. She does not take offence at this action, does not react, and simply accepts without a change in expression. He still expects the lash, the harsher word, the searing magic in his veins. This is why he needs the space, the difference, time to meld ghost and flesh, to know the change. But Hawke is Hawke, and he knows Hawke will wait.

“I’m going to the market after we get back. I’ve asked Bryce to keep some apples aside, if you’d like to come with me,” she says. “I hope you know I’m very clearly bribing you with apples to spend more time outside that dreadful mansion of yours.” She looks so serious, raising her eyebrows, leaning against her staff.

“I am aware and I will come with you,” he says under the chuckle.

“Good,” she says with a smile.


	221. Don't Want (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: Femhawke&fenris "I don’t want you.” Pls make it hurt

Fenris reaches for her wrist, stops her mid-step. She looks back, startled, and does not take her arm back. Instead she remains still, allows him to tilt her head to the side, to look at the still bleeding wound on the side of her neck. An errant dagger, some thin line, a sting she had forgotten in the midst of battle. Now, the others walk home without a care, leaving the both of them in that back alley. “You are injured,” he says, and Hawke smiles at the care twisting between his brows. Even now – even now – he still…

“It’s fine,” she says as she presses fingers against her neck, allows the magic in her veins to stitch it closed. She pulls her hand away, dripping ruby red, and Fenris only frowns harder, allows her wrist to fall from his grasp. She studies him carefully as he looks at it, at the blood still stained although no wound remains. She forces herself not to be startled when he touches her.

Hands at the gentle curve of her neck, tracing the bone of her throat and moving upwards still, finding the line of her jaw, running a thumb over her lips. Holding her tightly as she winds her fists into his tunic. Hair curling at the nape of her neck, at his fingertips. She’s eyes like the reflection of a perfect pond and she’s searching his gaze for something, anything. Lips slightly parted saying, “Fenris,” and stepping even closer to him, until there’s no space left between them. “Fen,” and it’s so soft, just a murmur, but she’s looking at his mouth then looking back up, biting her bottom lip.

Her hand is moving to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him towards her as she tilts her face upwards, as she closes her eyes. Those long lashes, the freckles like stardust on porcelain. Her nose brushes against his, and he can feel her breath on his skin and, “kiss me,” she says in a hoarse whisper, “please.” He curls his fingers against her cheeks as he presses his forehead against hers, as he squeezes his eyes closed.

“I can’t,” he says as they open their eyes together. The words are ripped from him, brutal and desperate, an aching tear. There’s a stitch between her brows, and she is looking at him so very lost, something far more painful than any wound. He can feel her hands shaking as she steps back, as she takes his face in her hands. He lets his hands fall back to his side, clenching into fists. She’s keeping his face turned toward her, and he is unable to look anywhere else but at her.

“This is – you don’t know – I can’t keep doing this. I need you to tell me. I need hear you say you don’t love me and then I’ll – I’ll never-,” fluttering, quivering, a shudder that runs through her shoulders, a shiver that settles in the center.

“I don’t want you.” Killing what hope remains inside her, the thoughts wasted on him. Her touch leaves him, and he mourns the loss of each fingertip. Her hands fall limply to her side and something inside her seems to twist. Back straightened, shoulders squared, jaw clenched.

“I understand,” she says, although he knows she does not.


	222. Warden, Champion (Carver & F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a friend

It’s a softer fog than she’s ever known, something that blurs edges, obscures sight, and she knows she should never have brought him. She should have hidden him somewhere, in one of the vast corners of the world, kept him safe. She knew he would never have stood for it, but she would rather have his anger than him standing beside her in this moment. Raising her hand through that fog, the green that swirls in her palm, slips through her fingers, and she looks upwards into the endless nothing of the Fade.

She’s sure he can see it too, those figures darkly at the edge of her vision. Bethany, so bruised and broken, following every footstep, blood on her face and eyes all glass. Leandra, dressed in white, tearing at the stitches at her throat. The ghost of Fenris watches as she passes, dark circles under his eyes and long dead flowers in his hand, standing at her grave. She forces herself to look away, hurries her footsteps to close the distance between them. Carver gives her a single pale look, clenches his jaw. She should never have brought him.

She knows this regret well. She felt it in the Deep Roads, with his arm thrown over her shoulders, blighted veins twisting under his skin. If she had insisted he stayed in Kirkwall then she would never have lost him to the Wardens. The guilt stabs like a knife and she wonders how she’s going to lose him now. His knuckles are white, wrapped around the hilt of his sword, and the staff does not rest easy in her hands. Climbing rock, clinging to stone, twisted paths that lead towards some uncertain goal.

As they come to the mouth of the cave, the rift hangs heavy in the air. A gnarled mirror, some broken idea of a world they’re trying to get back to. Hawke can see the fortress in that reflection, a place she must return him to. The lightning webs between her fingertips as they face the demon in their path, a thing with distorted faces. It talks to her as Merrill, yells at her as Aveline. Words of Anders, of Varric, of Sebastian and Isabela. It begs with Fenris’s voice, pleads with his face. Whatever Carver sees, he does not hesitate to strike the killing blow.

The others do not falter, quickly race towards the rift. “Inquisitor!” Hawke reaches outwards, hand around arm, tugs them both backwards and to the ground, just as the monstrosity lands. A crawling thing of deepest nightmare, the entrance to the rift its prize.

“We need to get the Inquisitor out of here,” Carver barks and she knows that he is right. Palms pressed against cold, wet stone, pushing herself to her feet. The Inquisitor follows suit, arm trembling, hand shaking, anchor sputtering pain and power. To kill a demon like this would take time they did not have.

“I’ll distract it,” she hears herself saying, “take the Inquisitor and go.” Carver turns to face her, and Maker, she’s never seen him so angry.

“No. The Wardens caused this. A Warden will fix it.”

“Carver, I won’t let you –” His expression softens, he places a hand on her shoulder.

“You stopped being able to tell me what to do when we were kids,” he says, “go. Kirkwall needs its Champion.”

“I can’t be the last Hawke,” she tells him. His face twists, a pain she recognizes and he steps forward. Leaning over, a gesture of their childhood, his forehead against hers. A deep breath, and then he is moving back. Drawing himself to full height, squaring his shoulders, hands at his sword as the demon roars. He turns to face it, and she raises her staff.

“Go. We’ll distract it.” The Inquisitor is looking between both of them, and Hawke can’t help but think how young they are. So much on their shoulders, a burden in their fist. A weight that would never get easier, every choice a lingering scar. “Go,” Hawke insists, and with a wave of her hand, forces the Inquisitor forward. They stumble, begin to run, and do not look back.

“You ready?” Carver says, “I’m ready.”

“Aaaand here we go again,” she says. He takes a moment to grin at her before he charges forward. She arcs lightning, and the demon shrieks as it crackles on its hide. Carver stabs at what he can reach, grunts under the weight of the demons returning blow. Surging mana through her veins, bolstering his defense. At the edge of her vision, she can see the rift. Shimmering and shuddering, flickering and crumbling. And then it is gone.


	223. Don't Want You To Go (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: kiss meme: this one was hard to choose but maybe 19 with fenhawke?? (Kisses because I don’t want you to go and maybe I can convince you to stay just a few minutes longer)

The time for arguing is long past. All that time wasted with heated words, lashing tongue. Yelling until their voices grew hoarse, until the anger twisted in their throats. The truce was only reached late last night, quiet acceptance wrapped up in an embrace, in tangled limbs, in reassurance and in whispered affection. Now he can only watch, arms crossed, as she saddles the horse. She’s tying down the bags, stalling by checking everything. A second time, a third time, until she can’t avoid it anymore and turns to face him. “I have to go,” she says. His fingers bruise into his arms, and his steps towards her are stiff and hesitant.

“You don’t have to,” he tells her. One last plea, the only protest he has left. Her knuckles are white, holding tightly to that leather rein, and she has an expression he can’t place. Wistfulness, perhaps. Fenris reaches out to her, hands on her shoulders. At his touch, her expression breaks, turns to something like regret. He twists a lock of her hair between his fingers, settles his hand at the back of her neck. Closing the distance until there is no space left between them, pressing his forehead against hers, curling fingers against her cheek.

Hawke lets the reins fall, fisting her hands into his tunic, closing her eyes as she leans against him. “Don’t go,” he says, and all she wants to do is stay. Opening her eyes as she tilts her face upwards, as he’s tucking hair behind her ear, as he’s tracing the lines of her face. She’s memorizing that knot between his brows, his nose brushing against hers, the square of his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” she says, the words muffled by his mouth, lips against lips, an arm slipping around her waist and holding her tightly. Her arms slip around his neck as his other makes its way around her, crushing her against him. The kiss is fierce and desperate, full of longing. It isn’t a goodbye, it’s still that plea, _stay, stay, stay_. They can’t seem to break from it, one kiss after the other, his hands shaking at her waist, on her back.

It’s Hawke who breaks it, not to pull away but to press closer, burying her face into the crook of his neck. Taking that one last chance to breathe him in, the warmth of him, before she cups his face in her hands, before she gives him that one last ghost of a kiss. Her hands fall to his chest, and finally she pushes away, and he takes one of her hands in his before it has a chance to fall completely. Helping her onto the horse, beating its hooves under her weight.

She gives him an empty smile, squeezes his hand. She presses her heel in and the horse begins to move. Her fingertips brush against his, and the distance grows too much. She leaves him standing there, his hand still outstretched.


	224. Choice (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: Hungry kisses on every bit of newly visible skin as clothing is slowly peeled away + fenhawke + u writing it = me dead

They’re tripping over each other as they walk from the foyer to the stairs, her face still in his hands. She’s walking backwards, her hands at his shoulders, threading through his hair, wrapping around his waist, unable to rest. She stumbles as the heel of her foot finds the first stair, a hand finding the railing. Taking another step, bending down so that she doesn’t break the kiss. His hands move from her face to her waist, and in one swift movement, he lifts her off her feet. He carries her with little effort, slowly lowers her back to ground at the landing, himself still a step down.

Only then do they slowly break apart, and Hawke cups his face in her hands. Her hair drifts around them like a blackened veil, but still he can see those bright eyes, those lips red and raw from attention. Her thumb brushes against his cheekbone, her fingers trace the shell of his ear. They’re studying each other, unable to look apart, and he is gripping the bannister tightly, his knuckles white with want of her. “Fenris,” she murmurs, followed by a muffled gasp of surprise as he surges forward. That stumbling again, towards the bedroom.

She steps away as he carefully closes the door behind them. Hand on the knob, listening for the click. Only then does he turn to look at her, standing by the fire. She has one arm crossed, holding her other elbow, fingers touching at her lips. She shifts from foot to other foot, looking at him shyly. All the brash confidence is stolen from him, suddenly hesitant, and maybe she knows he’s wanted this for longer than even he’s known.

The light flickers on her face, the embers of her freckles, and he’s slowly stepping towards her. Hand at his wrist, fingers at the straps of his gauntlets. She undoes them one by one and only then does she reach for his breastplate, settles it beside the others. She reaches for the buttons of his tunic, lifts her eyes to meet his. She’s waiting there, taking deeper breaths, the pink coloring on her face. His hand slips against her cheek, and he leans towards her. His nose brushes against hers, lips touch against lips.

Hawke tastes like strawberries, smells of lavender. She feels like fire of her own, heat in every touch, warm and wet in her mouth. She’s undoing the buttons, flattening her hands against his shoulders, letting the tunic fall to the floor. Fingers curl at the nape of his neck, as her mouth slips from his to kiss the space between the square of his jaw and his earlobe. She follows the curve of his neck with her mouth, pausing to press teeth against it, to kiss the red mark she’s made. She kisses the goblet of his throat, murmuring his name. Her hands move over his ribs, his hips, follow his spine back upwards. A kiss to his shoulder, and the other, guiding his hands towards the edges of her shirt. “Fenris.” There’s a question in his name, room to stop if he so chooses. She gives him the choice. He chooses her.


	225. Stay (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: For Kissing Day! From the types of kisses list: stay in bed kisses, mischievous and deep, punctuating flirtatiously whispered bargaining words. otp of your choice, but I'm always going to lean toward Hawke x someone. :D

Someone’s left the window open, just a crack, enough that the breeze slips through and rustles through the curtains. There’s noise down in the streets, sunlight flickering on the ceiling. Ash and ember left in the fireplace, its warmth long since gone. She’s huddled under blankets, surrounded by pillows, snuggled in tightly, her face barely visible and her hair splayed in every direction. He leans against the doorframe and simply watches for a moment. There’s a bird outside the window, singing its song, but she does not wake. Instead she simply rolls over onto her side. He struggles with the smile, hides it with a hand.

Fenris takes each step carefully, avoiding that one spot that creaks terribly, makes his way to the side of the bed. Leaning over, brushing hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear. Gently climbing into the bed with her, an arm sliding underneath her neck. His chest pressed against her back, his legs bent the same as hers, his other hand drifting over her arm. It settles around her waist, pulls her close. Hawke murmurs in waking, breathing deeply as she struggles to open her eyes. Shifting and turning, and her smile is full of sleep. “It’s time to get up,” he says as he runs a hand through her hair, fingers curling against her cheek.

She blinks once, twice, then buries her face against his chest. Her arms slowly wrap around him, hands fisting in his tunic, pulling him closer. He can barely hear the “no,” so muffled and hoarse. He chuckles under his breath as he leans away slightly, presses a kiss to her forehead. Faking a pout as she looks up at him, tangling her legs in his. “Stay,” she says.

“You know that Aveline wants to see us about –” He’s stopped by the thumb running over his lips, her hand so warm against his face. Fingertips that trace the shell of his ear, follow the line of his jaw. Her eyes shift from his to his lips, once last brush of her thumb before she fulfills her promise of a kiss.

“Stay,” she murmurs against his mouth. Her hands against his shoulder, pulling at his shirt, dragging him closer. He moves as she asks, stretching out over her, elbows against the mattress. She tastes of sleep and sweeter things, her mouth warm and wet, her tongue explorative. Her hands are moving as her legs wrap around his waist, finding the bottom of his shirt and sliding underneath. She finds the track of his spine, presses fingers against it as she moves upwards. Over his shoulder blades, against every rib, back down again.

“Stay,” she says with quickened breath, in between longer kisses. She always has an appetite for him, the craving, and the fervor. Wanted and needed, never taken for granted. Not in just simple kisses, but for his company itself. For the quiet words before bed, food shared in the morning. Drinking wine as he reads, his head on her lap. Offering the words he doesn’t recognize, speaking the things he cannot say. Terrible jokes crafted for his laughter alone, her hand over his, the smile flashed across a room.

“Aveline will be furious,” he tells her.

“Let her be,” she says, “stay with me”. Pulling him down, his weight settling against hers. Her arms wrapping around him, his head in the crook of her neck. Closing his eyes as she runs fingers through his hair, pressing the kiss to his forehead. He can feel her feet against his legs, happily capturing him, her arms squeezing him tightly.


	226. Weeks Away (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: 4 for the kiss meme! F!fenhawke cuz otp ♡♡♡ (Desperate kiss)

She stands in the doorway, a hand wrapped around her arm, knuckles white. Her hair is still damp from the bath she’s taken, and she’s biting her bottom lip. She finally raises her eyes to his and, “I’m sorry, it took longer than I thought it would,” she says. Weeks away on Sundermount, without any word. She’s in leggings, missing a knee, a tunic that’s too large for her. Feet bare and dirty, shoes forgotten in her haste to knock at his door.

Without a word he surges forward, crushing his lips against hers. A hand at the back of her neck, the other at her waist, pulling her inside. Fumbling the door closed, pressing her against it. She opens her mouth to his, wet and warm, tongue against tongue. Winding her fists into his tunic, his hips against hers. Fresh and new, damp and dewy, smelling of lavender. “I have missed you,” he rasps, slowly sliding a hand into her hair, her lips following his when he pulls away and meeting him when he comes back again. Again and again, small things that grow longer and longer.

“I missed you too,” she says in between breaths, and his hand squeezes at her hip. Both of them settling there, moving lower as he bends, hands underneath her thighs as he lifts her effortlessly. Wrapping her legs around his waist, crossing her arms together, fingers playing with his hair. He takes her step by step without breaking the kiss, without opening his eyes, knowing his mansion almost as well as he knows every inch of her.

Stair after stair, settling her down gently atop the desk. She keeps her legs around him as he takes a moment to look at her. Studying eyes like sharpest glass, clearest blue, the freckles like constellations on a porcelain sky. Cheeks flushed, lips red and raw from attentions. Running a thumb over those lips, the peek of a glistening tongue, as her hands find the edge of his shirt. Slipping underneath, fingertips against his skin.

“Fen,” she murmurs as she leans towards him, hands splayed against his lower back. His name always seems so sacred in her mouth, so carefully constructed, voice with layer upon layer of adoration.

“Hawke,” he says, his nose brushing against hers, feeling her smile, that happiness, seep into the kiss.


	227. Glass (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: If you are still taking prompts for Kissing Day, would you please consider prompt #17. When the broken glass litters the floor, from The way you said "I love you" list for fenhawke? Please and thank you!

He knows he must speak, but he doesn’t know the words, can’t find his voice. He’s long thought about what he might say, but now that she’s before him, it all slips away. He squeezes his hands into fists, pressing against his knees, drags his eyes to hers. “I should have asked your forgiveness long ago,” an apology is all he has left, “I hope you can forgive me now.” There’s some small smile at the corners of her lips, something not like sadness in her expression. Reaching out from where she sits, brushing her hand over his.

“There’s nothing to forgive Fenris,” she tells him. “I’ve always understood.” For too long it’s been like broken glass, shards upon shards, the guilt and the longing. Knowing what he’d done, how he’d hurt her, and not seeing a way to fix it. Every word spoken, every errant touch, just another shard, the pinprick against rib. Their hands tangle together as they stand, as he closes the distance between them.

“If I could go back, I would stay. Tell you how I felt,” he says as nose touches nose, brushing against each other, a hand at the nape of her neck. She’s looking between his eyes and his mouth, licking her lips, swaying closer to him.

“What would you have said?”

“Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.” It’s as though the shards are in his throat, that final bleed, but her thumbs are brushing against his cheekbones, her lips touching against his. She is the rain to his drought, the oasis in the desert, taking that glass and making it hers. There’s no room left for hesitation, wrapping his arms around her, stealing her breath and keeping it in his lungs. He can feel the smile against his mouth, the tenderness in her touch, and if there is a future to be had, then it is at her side.


	228. Realizing (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: For the new & improved kiss meme, 20 with Zevran/f!Mahariel please? Maybe Zevran realizing he loves her? I absolutely adore your writing! (Kisses because everything hurts right now including being loved by you but you’re also the only thing that makes it feel better)

If there is one thing she is, it is warmth. A fire all her own, a heat no other can match. Many times had she stolen into his tent, he into hers. Wrapped in each other, tangled limbs and burning lips, falling asleep with her in his arms. It is rare to wake up alone, to wake up cold, but the closer they inch towards their goal, the more it seems to happen. He pushes himself up from the bedroll, tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ears. At least, tonight, she has not gone far. He finds her stoking the fire with a stick, sitting on a fallen log, elbow on her knee and chin in her hand.

She turns when she hears the tent open, smiles when she sees him. He settles hands on her shoulders, works fingers against muscle. He knows what nightmares plague her. He knows not to ask her to come back to bed. Not yet. Instead he leans over as his hands slip over her arms, his face beside hers, running his tongue along the shell of her ear. She chuckles under his attentions, leans away and stands to face him. “You should sleep,” she tells him. He wants to tell her not without you, but instead he takes her hand in his.

Pulling her towards him with a smug smile, wrapping an arm around her waist. “What are we doing?” She asks, the amusement just barely quirking at the edge of her lips.

“Dancing,” he says. She rewards him with a snort of laughter before he begins to sway, as she settles her hand on his shoulder. Zevran’s still smiling, studying her face. He knows it even better than his own, each careful curve of _vallaslin_ , the shadows under her eyes, the dimples in her cheeks. Closing his eyes as he rests his forehead against hers, as they step against dirt and leaf. Gently moving together, her quiet breathing, that heat that seeps from her to him.

He almost feels guilty, stealing her like this. Hoarding her all to himself. Almost. Instead, his nose brushes against hers, listening to her soft exhale, the way she eases into him. To him, there are no others like her. There are no others. His hand squeezes around hers for a moment. She may think it a simple gesture of care, of affection, but for him it is a sign of the realization. He feels it in the dread of every heartbeat, in the slow pounding against rib, the heat that flushes the back of his neck and sweeps into his cheeks. In the knot between his brows, the gritting of his teeth, the subtle way he holds her tighter. He loves her.

He’s heard the words before, such hollow and meaningless things, but now he’s the one saying them, repeating them, an echo in his skull. Everything stops, slides to a halt, opening his eyes to see her quizzically looking at him. “Zev? What’s wro-” He stops her with the hard press of his lips against hers. Resistant, surprised at first, she soon eases into it. That hand on his shoulder sliding into his hair, her mouth opening to his, so warm and wet. The murmurs as they shift, as he holds her face in his hands. Brushing thumbs over cheekbones, fingers against the pointed tips of her ears, tracing the line of her jaw.

She is the first true choice he’s made. Free of the gilded cage, of the lies, of everything he ever was. He thought he would find it in a different way. He thought he would find it at the edge of her blade. He’s afraid now, a fear he’s never felt before, in a way he never wanted to. Afraid he will lose her. Afraid she won’t love him back. He holds her a little tighter, hand at the nape of her neck, kisses her a little harder. He has her _now_. He forces all other thoughts away.


	229. Ribbon (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: YokamiYoake on AO3: A ZevranXfemaleMahariel: Zev nicks something of Mhartanoir's (my mahariel), probably a hairbrush or ribbon or something, resulting in her chasing him all over camp. Just a little gimpse of a moment when the blight don't exist.

She closes her eyes, allows him to thread his fingers through her hair. She sits on the ground, legs crossed, hands playing with the strings of long grass, feeling the heat of the fire on her face. He sits on a fallen log, their makeshift stool, a leg on either side of her. Humming as he works at long strands, twisting them between his fingers, weaving even braids, neat knots. His fingers are skillful and gentle, and never once does she feel a tug against her skull, the sting of a lost hair.

It’s become a nightly ritual for them, one Zevran has insisted upon. She’s never been too fond of other’s hands on her, pawing at her, but with him, there’s something far different in it. He saves his want for when she wants as well, and his only need is to be close to her. It’s comforting, calming, in a way. To sit without a care, eyes closed without worry, her back protected and his fingers in her hair. He takes a moment to trace the shell of her ear, to brush a thumb against her cheek. She leans into his touch, and the smile quirks at the edge of her lips.

“Your ribbon is a lovely color,” he says as he curls it between his fingers, “perhaps I should steal it for myself.” She turns, tilts her head to look at him, trying to hide the smile that twists at the edge of her lips.

“That ribbon belongs to _me_ ,” she says. Tongue against his teeth, making repeated _tsk_ sounds as he holds it out of her reach, wagging his finger at her.

“Not anymore, _mi amore_.” He leaps to his feet as she scrambles to hers, dancing and twisting away just enough to have her fingertips brush against him, but not to catch him. “I think it suits me completely,” he says as he walks backwards, facing her as he ties the ribbon on his hair. Her strides are getting longer, faster, that grin just there, determination in her gaze. He throws back his head and laughs as he begins to run in earnest, past Morrigan’s scolding _ugh_ , away from Alistair calling after them.

A merry chase it is, weaving through tree and brush, under branch and leaf. Her steps are quick and nimble, all too easily keeping up with him. This is her domain, and he is caught in her grasp, arms around his waist, falling to the ground. She sits triumphantly over him, straddling him beneath her, thighs pressing against him, hands against his chest. His hands settle on her hips, looking up at her. She’s framed by moonlight, shrouded in shadow, and she leans closer, a hand against his cheek.

She distracts him with the kiss, with tongue and teeth, wild breath and murmured mewling. Her fingers tangle in his hair, pull the ribbon free. “You caught me,” he tells her, meaning more than in just this way. Whether she realizes it or not, she smiles, a lighter kiss ghosting against his lips.


	230. Problem (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "what's your fucking problem" and u already know the pairing bb ;)))

There’s something that twists in Hawke. He can see in the downturn of her lips, the dark cloud on her brow, and the white knuckles around her mug. Her gaze is shifting, looking over the bar, not listening to the conversation around her. A restless anger, a frustration she cannot put to bed. It’s been like this since the funeral, grief turning to rage. She’s wearing one of Carver’s old shirts, something far too large for her, along with the necklace he had always seen Leandra wearing. Bethany’s scarf is tied around her wrist, as always. Hawke carries her ghosts with her.

She turns her head over her shoulder at loud shouting voices, watches the drunkards who push at each other. He can see Aveline watching as well, narrowing her eyes at Hawke. A sigh escapes her when Hawke rises from her seat, begins to watch over. “Here we go again,” she says to him. Hawke with back straight and shoulders squared, sharp and quiet words falling from her mouth. One of the men gestures angrily at her, the ale in his mug spilling over as he brandishes it at her.

“What’s your fucking problem?” He shouts, spit flying at every word. Hawke’s expression does not change, although her hands clench into fists. Without hesitation, she smashes her face into his, sending him stumbling backwards. She seems unfazed by it, marching forward, winding her hands into his tunic, pulling him into the punch. Both he and Aveline are on their feet when the other man puts his hands on her shoulders. Running to her defense, pulling the three of them apart.

Fenris has his arms bound around her, and she is writhing in his grasp. “Let me go,” she’s saying through clenched teeth, but Fenris closes his eyes, rests his head on her shoulder. Aveline has a hand on either chest, the guard in her coming out in full, scolding them like children. Hawke is slowly calming, her breathing even, and only when he feels her shoulders sag does he finally let her go. She makes for the door immediately. He follows in her wake.

“Hawke,” he says as she storms out into the streets. Running a hand through her hair, keeping her back to him as she walks. “Hawke!” Catching up with her, a hand around her wrist, slowing her just enough to walk beside her. She’s moving her hand, shaking it from him, sliding their hands together. He doesn’t know how to hold his arm while she’s holding his hand. Stiff and awkward, unsure of all they were and what they are now. She’s not looking at him, simply staring at the cobble underneath her feet.

Fenris forces her to sit in the study, on that couch, by the fire. He knows where she keeps it in her kitchen, the left bottom drawer. Filling a cup with water, taking a cloth, the bandages. Her legs are bouncing when he returns, the frown still distinctly lingering. Kneeling down before her, dipping in the corner of the cloth. Hand at her chin, turning her to face him, dabbing it at her split lip. Using his now free hand to settle on her knee, calming her legs to stillness. “Why did you fight them?” He asks her.

She’s still not quite looking at him. “I don’t know,” she says, “felt like it.” The same answer, each and every time. He lets his hands fall to his lap, fingers playing with the stray threads of the cloth. Looking at the blood that stains it. He slowly tilts his face upwards to her, and this time, she’s finally looking at him.

“How can I help you Hawke?” Something hopeless and lost passes over her. Face in her hands, rubbing her eyes, sighing as she leans back. Crossing her arms and staring at the fire.

“I don’t know,” she says, barely audible. “I don’t know.”


	231. Watching, Waiting (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Kisses because everything hurts right now" for Fenhawke?

They’re taking turns, watching her every moment of every day. For reasons they don’t want to think about, things they don’t give voice to. Bodahn greets him at the door, dark circles under his eyes. He’s been overseeing the rotating circle of people in and out of the estate. Isabela meets him at the landing, stretching arms over her head, giving a roaring yawn. She slips past him down the stairs, and he can hear her talking softly to Bodahn. He pays it no mind, closes the door behind him.

He stokes the fire, gives new life to embers. Folding the blanket that was thrown haphazardly over the chair, resting it over the bedframe. He pulls the chair closer to the bed before he sits. Resting elbows on the mattress, taking her hand in his. She doesn’t stir at his touch. “Hawke,” he says softly, but the only reply is the crack of burning wood, the spark of fire behind him.

She had stayed standing for so long, afterwards. Enough to show no weakness in front of Meredith, in front of the retreating Qunari. Only then had she gone to Fenris, pale in her cheeks, blood on her hands. He had caught her when she fell. That strain in appearing fine, Anders had said, is what made it worse. Fenris had stayed outside the door, that day and night, leaving Anders and Merrill alone with her. The constant magic was needles on his skin, ice in his markings. Still, he did not move. And when they had finished, still, she did not wake.

He had chosen this shift, the one before the dawn, the one no one else wanted. The day was filled with unwanted guests, an anxious bustle of friends. He did not want to be around the others. All those soft looks of pity, having heard those babbling words on a dying Hawke’s lips. He would have that babble again, over this silence. She’s not quite so pale anymore, her hands no longer cold to the touch. He reaches forward, tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

His mind is mercifully empty as the hours pass, as sun begins to flood the streets, as the birds begin to sing. Anders will be here soon, as he is to check on her every morning. Fenris thinks he can hear the door. He rises from where he is sitting, hand still wrapped in hers, leans over the bed. He doesn’t know what possesses him. He plants a soft kiss against her forehead, the barest brush of his lips against skin. Sighing, as he goes to move.

He thinks it might have been a twitch until it happens again. Gentle pressure of her fingertips against his hand. Eyes that slowly open. “Don’t go,” she says, voice hoarse with hurt, harsh with time unused.

Anders opens the door to find Fenris sitting on the bed beside her, the both of them talking in quiet tones. They don’t hear the click of the door, the smallest creak. He doesn’t know what they’re saying but Hawke is smiling as she looks up at him, their hands still wrapped together.


	232. Another Step (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 4 in Angst prompts (take one more step...) for Fenhawke! Make it angry, I got hirt at work and I am soooo in the mood for anger. <3 <3 “Take one more step in that direction and I will kill you.”

There’s some hope left in her before they open the door. It fades the moment they step inside, when she feels the chill twisting around her spine, vines filled with thorns, settling into defeat. Sadness not for her, but for him. He isn’t thinking. He doesn’t see it. Hawke follows in his footsteps, gently takes her staff in her hands. She will be ready, even if he can’t be. “Varania?” Fenris says, footsteps coming to a halt. His voice breaks and Maker, so does Hawke.

She barely hears them speaking. Instead she’s scanning the Hanged Man, all those empty corners that are usually filled. Aveline exchanges a look with Isabela, the both of them with hands on their weapons as well. Fenris thinks he’s finding his family, the answers to his past. Hawke knows this will end differently. The rational part of him believed it could be a trap, but to hopeful Leto, there is no possibility of that. Varania looks over his shoulder, locks eyes with Hawke. Hawke stares back and Varania looks away, the shame on her brow.

“I’m sorry it came to this Leto,” she says. The blurred edges of him are becoming sharper, reeling in understanding, and Hawke has seen his fears before but never like this. A horror she’s never wanted him to feel, the despair she never wanted him to know. Terror he never needed, panic he thought he had left behind. She steps forward, in front of him, staff in her hand and magic bubbling under her skin. Aveline has drawn her sword, Isabela her daggers.

“Ah, my little Fenris. Predictable as always.” A slimy monster of a man, Danarius makes his way down the stairs, the smug smile curling at his lips.

“Take one more step, and I will kill you,” Hawke tells him, far more calmly than she feels. Danarius hesitates for only a moment. Then he is moving again and Hawke is pulling the magic free, strand by strand, weaving it around them. Fenris steps beside her, drawing his sword. The past, but not the one he wanted. If she could not give him that, then she would give him a future.


	233. A Proposal (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Will you marry me" Fenhawke? :D

Hands clenched around the pillow under her head, biting her bottom lip. Back arching, heels digging into the mattress. He keeps a tight grip around her hips, soft touch running down her thigh. A gasping breath, a twist in her belly, a hand that snaps downwards to tremble in his hair. “Fen,” she breathes, voice low and husky, and colored with pleasure. Toes curling, legs shuddering and he can’t help the smug sense of triumph that curls in his chest.

Mouth against her cunt, tongue pressed against her clit. Drawing out every mewling noise from her as he eats at her, tasting the sweetness of her. Feeling every twitch and every jolt, the ripples that wash through her body because of him. Wet with want, desire and need, unable to stop herself from bucking against him. “ _Fenris_ ,” a little desperate, darker, hungrier. Wiping his face against his arm as he stretches out over her, face flushed as pink as her chest.

Her legs against his, hands that travel up her arms. Looking at him through half-lidded eyes, moving upwards to capture his lips with hers. Tasting herself on his tongue, winding a hand through his hair, drifting fingertips over his back. He’s grinding his cock against her cunt, wetting the underside of it with her. The slow and steady roll of his hips, feeling her fingertips dig a little harder, her breath coming a little faster. “You are a torment,” she growls. He laughs softly, his forehead pressed against hers.

“And you are wonderful,” he tells her. He only laughs harder when he feels the soft smack against his arm. Wrapping her arms over his shoulders, around his neck, pulling her down to him. Settling his weight on top of her as he reaches between them, takes himself in hand. Aligning himself with her entrance, burrowing his face in the crook of her neck as he pushes inside. Clenching around him, that maddening warmth, savoring the groan that escapes her as he buries himself to the hilt.

His arms underneath her, his hands at her shoulders, teeth against skin as he begins to thrust. Agonizing strokes, her legs wrapping around his waist, his name on her lips. Tongue running against the shell of his ear, a kiss at the tip. Hand threading through his hair, tracing the line of his spine. He holds her tighter, hugs her harder, kisses her deeply. White hair mixing with black, his breath in her lungs, his lungs filled with her breath. “Marry me,” she suddenly sighs, eyes still closed, knot between her brows, lips red and raw from attention.

Everything seems to come to stop as Fenris looks at her. Her eyes slowly open to see his so wide with surprise, the dark clouds twisting between his brows. It had been a discussion – an argument – before. “I’m sorry,” she says as he leans back, kneeling on the bed, “it just slipped out.” She’s pushing herself to sit up, to kneel the same as him, her hand resting over his. “Fenris. I just – I’m sorry.” He slowly lifts his head to look at her, with that worry in her expression.

She’s leaving soon. Another ‘discussion’. But the Inquisition had called, and Hawke would answer. He reaches forward, cupping her face in his hands. Brushing thumbs over cheekbones, feeling the hair curling at her nape. Watching as her expression slowly softens, eases, closing her eyes under his touch. “I should be the one asking you,” he tells her. She’s capturing his lips with the smile, arms thrown around him, and he nearly loses his balance.

Shuffling her legs around his, a hand on each shoulder. Reaching between them, as she aligns them, kissing him as she settles. His hands travel the length of her back, loving every curve, watching as her breasts bounce with each thrust. Tilting his face upwards to look at her, as she presses her forehead against his, playfully pinching at his earlobe. “I love you,” she says. Wrapping his arms around her, his Hawke in his arms, listening to each steady heartbeat.


	234. Nothing More (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Are you crying? For hawke and fenris please :)

“Why didn’t you save her?” The mother cries as she stares at Hawke, holds the bundle they’ve brought back to her.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke says as she bends down, “I tried, I –” she’s reaching out but the mother twists out her reach. Hawke snatches her hand back as though burned, standing up and stepping back, allowing Aveline to move forward. She holds her fist to her chest, watches as Aveline puts a hand on her shoulder, whispers quiet words. The mother continues to rock back and forth, holding her child to her breast, crying all the while.

* * *

Hawke stands quietly in the kitchen, a hand on the kettle, the other on the counter. It’s whistling, boiling, steaming. Fenris gently lifts her hand away, and she looks at him with surprise. “Bodahn let me in,” he explains, as he holds her hand in his, examines her palm. Red and warm, not burnt. He lifts her hand to his lips, presses a kiss against her knuckles. Pulling her into the embrace, an arm around her waist, over her shoulders. Threading fingers through her hair, his forehead against hers.

Hawke has accepted the mantle of Champion with utter totality. She receives more complaints, more requests than even the guard. She answers each one. Not all end well. The growing dark circles under her eyes have not slipped his notice, the defeat that pounds on her shoulders after each day like today. The daze of guilt, these moments lost in her thoughts, and he will not leave her to them. “You did all you could,” he tells her, “There was nothing more to be done.”

Somewhere, deep down, she knows that. But for now she winds fists in his tunic, rests her head on his shoulder. Keeping her in his arms, swaying on their feet. Long moments spent in silence, until finally her grip tightens. Burying her head in the crook of his neck. Hands reaching, unable to settle, unable to hold as tight as she wants to. Restlessness in every limb, and he knows she is fighting it, even though she doesn’t have to. Not with him.

He doesn’t need to ask to know she is crying. It begins in silence, the wobbling chin she will not let him see. Squeezing eyes closed, taking deep breaths. “I will stay here tonight,” he says, “and we will sleep through the morning. Perhaps the afternoon as well.” A watery laugh, muffled against him. A half smile crosses his lips at the sound, hand moving in small circles on her back.


	235. To Forgive (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Please tell me you forgive me" for Fenhawke? :)

She gasps breath, heaves air, unable to fill her lungs. Fists against stone, knees against rock, collapsing in the dirt. Shivering in the cold, huddling into a ball. If not for the rift that glows behind her, she might have thought herself blind. Teeth chattering, limbs shaking, and she’s forcing herself to her feet. Leaning against the wall, stumbling forward. She had hoped the rift would take her to a sky that seemed upright, ground steady, grass and unshifting green. She knows the feel of the Deep Roads all too well. A tomb closing around her, and in the darkness, she can only scream.

A step, and then another. The magic had come so easily to her in the Fade, but now it seems all too difficult. Desperate for a flame, managing only a whisper of it. A flicker that dances in her palm, a staggering effort to keep it from being snuffed out. A step, and then another. Hunger gnaws in her belly, the ache scratches at her bones. Barely able to see in front of her, and the flame longs to die. A step, and then another. She did not come so far, fight through so much, only for it to end when she is here, when she is back, when she is so close. A step, and then another.

For days without end, the mornings she cannot know, the nights that don’t exist. Onward and forward, and the magic gets easier but everything else… feet blistered and sore, muscles tired and torn. She longs to sleep, but is afraid that if she does, she might not wake. Feeding on what little she can find, what deepstalkers she can kill. Lips cracked with want of water, eyes dark with want of sleep. She nearly cries when she finds the Deep Roads proper, those tunnels lit with lava. Instead, she collapses.

It is either luck or a miracle an expedition finds her. Dwarves that had turned from their original path to take one unknown, finding her curled in a ball. They argue, whether they should take her back with them. Perhaps a Warden on their Calling, or a human that’s simply blighted. Either way, she wakes in a bed, fire lit beside her. Despite it, there is still cold lingering under her skin, and the dwarf attending to her adds more blankets. Hawke reaches out, wraps a hand around her wrist, stopping the dwarf when she goes to leave.

“Fen-,” voice hoarse, croaking with lack of use, “Fenris,” she manages.

“Is that where you’re from?” The dwarf asks and Hawke shakes her head. There is a weight on her skull, a heaviness that clouds her vision. Another, perhaps another.

“Tethras. Varric Tethras,” Hawke says.

“The surfacer? Part of the Inquisition?”

“ _Please_ ,” is all she can manage before her hand falls away, before she slips back into sleep. Such a strange thing, to receive a letter all the way from Orzammar. He almost doesn’t open it, thinking it a trap from the Merchant’s Guild. His stomach drops away when he does read it, holding a hand over his mouth. Varric is writing to Kirkwall almost immediately, arranging travel for a certain elf. Varric is flanked by Inquisition when he arrives at that snowy gate, but Fenris arrives alone two days later.

She wakes to hands on her face, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. Hair against her forehead, someone else’s breath against her lips. Her name, again and again, and it’s a voice she remembers. Opening her eyes as she reaches upwards, winds a fist in his tunic. “Fenris,” and the most she can manage is a whisper but he is kissing her palm, her cheeks, her lips, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close.

“Hawke, my Hawke,” and he’s cracked as much as she, the ache stabbing through every syllable.

“I should never have left,” she’s saying, “I should never have gone. Fenris, I’m sorry, please, please, I’m so sorry. Please tell me you forgive me, plea-” The kiss is rough and raw, stopping her words, his hands trembling on her back.


	236. The Dog (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: we are not going to steal someone's dog" with fenhawke bc duh

“Oh my god,” Hawke is saying, already running across the street. Aveline sighs, rubs her brows, and waits at the crosswalk for the light to change. When she finally reaches Hawke, she’s on her knees, cooing at the slobbering dog.

“You are so precious, yes you are, a precious perfect baby,” she says, like she’s talking to a baby. Hands in its fur, such a large shaggy thing. Panting and happy, tail wagging back and forth. It’s tied to a fence, from its beautiful leather collar. Hawke is reaching for the tag, searching for a name. “Odin! Oh, isn’t that perfect.” She’s shuffling forward, wrapping arms around the dog, smothering it in kisses. The dog is all too happy, kissing right back.

“Hawke,” Aveline says, shifting her coffee cup from one hand to the other, “I want to go home.”

“I want this dog,” she says as she looks up. “Help me steal this dog.”

“ _Hawke_. We are not going to steal someone’s dog.”

“But he loves me,” Hawke whines, and the dogs ears perk up as it cocks its head, looking up at Aveline. The door chimes, and he steps down, eyebrows up as he looks at the two women.

“Excuse me,” he says and the dog is instantly on its feet, tail a blur. “That’s my dog.” Hawke brushes off her knees as she stands, immediately sticks out her hand towards him.

“Then I need to be your friend and make frequent visits. Name’s Hawke,” she says. Behind her, she can hear Aveline mutter something under her breath, and knows exactly what face she’s making. He looks at her hand for a moment, then to the dog, and finally takes her offer of a shake.

“Fenris,” he says, “and this is Odin, although I wager you already know that.”


	237. Promise (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: You promised you wouldn't do this anymore" for fenhawke

He doesn’t fault her for this. Abruptly stopping the rhythm, pushing him onto his back. Not for the hands pressed against his chest, the knees pressed into the mattress. Taking her place above him, and this position is not for the pleasure of it. Fenris doesn’t fault her for control where control can be taken, the one thing where she knows the outcome is certain. On days like these, she never closes her eyes. They flutter, come close to closing, but don’t shut. Always, watching him, needing to see him. Reassuring him of her presence, and she of his.

His hands move up her thighs, settle on her hips, a steadying pressure. Hawke runs a hand through her hair, all those strands that stray so quickly. Biting her bottom lip, red and raw, the flush on her face and on her chest. Her hands curl into fists against him, back out again, palms against skin. She’s looking away from him and he knows it’s happening again. Her mind is wandering, thoughts straying to a place he cannot go. She’s drifting, losing, anchor raised and floundering.

“You promised you wouldn’t do this anymore.” He’s pushing himself upwards, pulling her towards him, guiding her movements as he leans his back against the headboard. Raising his knees to catch her, tilting his face upwards towards hers. Hands that cup her face as movements slow, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. “Stay here,” he tells her softly, “be with me.” She rests her hands on his shoulders as she closes her eyes, forehead against forehead.

“I’m sorry,” she says as his fingertips trail over the bumps of her spine. “I’m sorry,” as his lips catch hers, halting any other words. He wants to steal Hawke away from being Champion, from Kirkwall, from the world. He wants to steal her away from those sleepless nights, the restless rolling, and the worry that burdens her shoulders. Wrapping his arms around her, holding her tight as they move as one, his mouth at the hollow of her throat. He does not have much to give. To her, he would give anything. For now, he has only himself. And he is hers.


	238. The Sea (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 15 or 2 for fenris and f!hawke for the kiss meme :) (2: Painful kiss) (15: A kiss because I have literally been watching you all night and I can’t take anymore)

She’s on the deck again. Arms crossed and leaning against the railing, wind sweeping through her hair. Looking out onto rolling wave and endless sea, tucking a stray lock behind her ear. Sighing as she leans back, tapping fist against wood, looking over as his hand finds her back. Wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer. She smiles as she leans against him, crossing her arms and sinking into his warmth. Her head leans against his, black hair winding with white.

“The last time I was on a ship, I was fleeing Ferelden and heading to Kirkwall. Now I’m fleeing Kirkwall and heading to Ferelden,” she tells him. She had stood in the foyer for much too long, bag in her arms, staring back into the dark and empty estate. He had put his arm around her shoulders, guided her to the door. They had gone to the ship under the cover of night, just as the Seekers converged on Kirkwall.

He had fought to find some sense of home in Kirkwall. At first, it was simply a place to hide. It had taken years before the mansion felt quite right, before the streets weren’t quite unwelcome. Much of that was due to Hawke, her hand in his, pulling him from one thing to the next. It hadn’t taken Fenris long to realize that his home was not in Kirkwall, but with her. He knew it was different for her, having fled the Darkspawn years before. The family that she lost, the family that she gained, all that she had worked for. All she had to leave behind.

He kisses the crown of her head as she closes her eyes, the smile still lingering on her lips. “I _do_ want to take you to Lothering. Even if it isn’t quite the same,” she says. There’s some fleck of regret in her voice, perhaps the guilt of not staying. Not having fought harder. He holds her a little tighter. Turning to look at her, and she tilts her face up towards him.

They were so young once, but now time had etched its passage in their skin. The smile lines around her mouth, the crow’s feet at her eyes. The lines of character Hawke has acquired, the change that had quietly slipped by them. He loves her more now than he did the first day he knew, and he would love her until their last. He wants all of her, the smallest moments, the grey in her hair and the ache in her fingers. He had once thought he would die young. He had accepted that. Now he sees them growing old together and would not change it for the world.

His fingertips trace the line of her jaw, thumbs running over her cheekbones. Smiling as he presses his lips against hers, unable to wait any longer. She smells like the sea, all salt and brine, but tastes like Hawke always tastes, sunshine and strawberries. Wet and warm in her mouth, turning to embrace him, to fold into him, hands fisting at his back. “I am glad I have you Hawke,” he says to her as he presses his forehead against hers.

Her eyes widen for a moment, but then she settles into a small chuckle. Perhaps it is words or the wind that have carved away the pleased pink on her cheeks, and she bites her bottom lip as she looks at him shyly. Her nose rubs against hers, plants a smaller kiss. “I’m glad I have you too,” she says, “Fen.” No space left between them, ignoring the gulls and sailors, the sound of waves against the boat. “I love you,” and he kisses her again, and again, and again.


	239. Student (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: We’re actually being kind of silly for once’ kiss for FenHawke?

She saunters up behind him, puts her hands in the pockets of his sweater. Resting her chin on his shoulder, peering at the label he’s reading. “What the heck is a kiwano melon?” She asks, voice rumbling low. He snorts as he puts the bottle back, holding the basket in his other hand. Walking like a penguin attached to him as they move down the aisle, Fenris reaches for something else. “The fuck is that?” She wrinkles her nose as he puts them in a bag, and then in the basket.

“Rambutan,” he says.

“You say that like it answers my question,” she says. He chuckles under his breath as she hugs him tightly, nibbles at his shoulder before finally stepping away. Stretching arms above her head (his eyes fall to the line of skin exposed by her raised shirt) as she wanders the aisle ahead of him, scratching her chin as she reads the sign over every fruit.

“You asked me to cook for you,” he tells her, “I’m sorry it’s not going to be microwaved.” She sputters as she turns to face him, suddenly indignant.

“Not everything I eat is microwaved!” She turns thoughtful, wracking her brain for an example. The smug smile crosses his lips as the pink colors her cheeks. She makes a grunt, buries her fists in her own pockets. Laughing as he closes the distance between them, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. A kiss to that flushed cheek, fingers curling at the nape of her neck. He leaves her standing there as he moves on, her fingers over her cheeks.

He doesn’t see the way the back of her neck burns scarlet, how the shell of her ears do much of the same. He hears quickened footsteps racing to catch up with him, her arm linking with his. “One day I’ll cook for you,” she says. “By _hand_. Nothing canned.”

“Mm- _mm_ m,” is his reply, along with raised eyebrows. He accepts the light punch against his arm, the way she moves closer as an instant apology.

“I swear it,” she says. “Even though your food is always going to taste better than mine.”

“I’ll teach you,” he says.

“I’m a terrible student,” she says bluntly, and he laughs in return.


	240. Flower (F!Hawke & Leandra)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "❛ I will not be another flower, picked for my beauty and left to die. I will be wild, difficult to find and impossible to forget. ❜ (hawk to her mother.)"

She pretends not to know. She says nothing about the late nights, the clothes she finds soaked with blood. The cracked knuckles, the fresh bruises, the cut on her chin. She pretends not to know, just as she pretends not to know that he left her. She doesn’t know when it happened, when they drifted away. She remembers a gurgling baby in her arms, smiling brightly, reaching upwards. What a carefree and happy child she had been – muddy boots and scraped knees, assembling her own gang of fellow children. A toothy grin and messy hair, presenting her with the frog she’d caught.

Every bath would be full of dirt and grime, the room filled with her constant chatter. Telling her all about her day, every new thing she’d seen, everything she’d done. She grew and the silence grew with it. Chatter was mere sentences, sentences became words, and words became grunts. The silence and the magic grew hand in hand, and she was more Malcolm’s daughter now. She would stand in the doorway, watch Marian and Malcolm work the fields. The reasons why she had left everything behind, the cold that swept in after the fire. At least she still had her babies, her twins. Smiling Bethany, darling Carver. Until they too, were gone.

She knew what it was to be young. Full of passion, a love of life, a defiance of rules and everything proper. Leandra had long given up trying to control her. Never did she think she’d return to Kirkwall, take control of the estate, and feel the weight of the Amell name on her shoulders. She thinks Marian should feel it as well, but they call her _Hawke_ and she comes home with a split lip and a black eye. She still knows what it’s like, running headfirst into mistakes. “An elven slave,” she says over washing dishes, “I hope you know what you’re doing.” Hawke throws down the drying towel, turns on her heel and leaves.

She can see them, even when Marian thinks she can’t. That alcove by the Chantry, heads close together, talking and smiling. She says nothing about the token wrapped around his wrist, emblazoned with the Hawke sigil. She buried her own with Malcolm. She’s never known Marian to be patient and this Fenris is resistant. Time would wear, affections would crumble, and she wouldn’t make the same mistakes she did. A baby they thought they wanted, a life they thought they needed, decisions they thought they would never regret. But oh, how they did.

“The Viscount is holding a gathering,” she tells her, “many fine young nobles will be there.” Marian lifts her feet from the table, settles them heavy on the floor as she slams her book closed. “You should meet with them before you’re past marrying age.” Leandra doesn’t need to look at her to know her expression. She’s seen it in Malcolm before. The clenched jaw, the hard line of her brows, those serious eyes boring holes into her back.

“Go yourself,” she says.

“At least one of us has to represent the Amell name,” Leandra hisses as she turns. Marian has her hands on her hips, laughing as she walks away. The book is filth, some common trash. They should have stayed in Lothering. There Marian would have thrived, amongst the wild. Nobility doesn’t suit her. Later in the evening, Leandra smooths down her dress, walks to the Keep alone. She receives a white lily, whispered words. At home, Marian isn’t there.


	241. Honey (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Fenhawke “Honey, please, try to love me”

She slips into the bed, gooseflesh across her skin. She throws an arm over his chest, shivers closer to him. Their legs tangle together, he shifts an arm under her neck, wraps it around her. His thumb moves circles over her shoulder, as she hugs him tightly, her other hand fisted against her chest. Moving slightly, burying her face into the crook of his neck. He reaches up, tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Taking that opportunity to feel, fingertips following the shell of her ear, the line of her jaw. She smiles under his touch.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, “I’m glad you came to me.” They – _he_ – had talked. Paced in her foyer while she sat and listened. A gaze that followed him, attention that never left. Words came pouring out of his mouth, a flood that would not stop. He had told her _some_ things before, but never like this. It was a relief, a weight lifted, and then Hawke took his hand so gently. Thumbs brushing over knuckles, eyes that never left his. After that, the kiss was inevitable.

She doesn’t try and stop him as he moves, rolling to his side and stretching out over her. His elbow presses into the mattress, his other hand at her cheek. A touch at his ribs, palms at his hips, legs that press against his. Tilting her face upwards to meet his, his fingers threading through her hair. The kiss is delicate, softer than the ones that came before. Those were fire and anger, an allowance to lose himself inside her. Now she feels more real, the shore of the ocean, and he finds solid footing. Hadriana was just the first step. He would finish it, and he would join Hawke on that distant hill.

Sleep throws him back into turning waves, turbulent pitch, and a current he cannot pull himself from. In this dream, it’s not Hawke’s hand he holds. They have a face he knows, a name he’s called so many times before. Someone smiles at him, runs a hand through his hair. The name on their lips is blurred, but he knows it is his. He slips deeper, the anchor pulls tighter, and he drowns. He wakes heaving with breath, panic as he rips himself away from the bed. Hawke still sleeps, her arm outstretched over where he once lay.

The first step. One so fragile, glass underfoot, and he knows all of this came too soon. Foolish to think that he could take the rest at her side. His hands clench into fists. He would only cause her to drown with him. The images still linger as he closes his eyes, but they are fading like fog into sunlight. The feeling remains, twisting inside him, coiling around his belly. He cannot stay. She will hate him for this. Better the cruel cut, the sudden chop, the line drawn. There is too much between them to untangle properly.

He kneels by the bed, runs his hand over hers. Better the hate. She murmurs in her sleep, some restless dream, and yet she does not pull her hand from his. He does not think she will understand. There are things he needs to say, but he knows they will be no flood. The river has run dry and his tongue is scorched, throat parched. There are things he needs to say but he doesn’t know the words. If there is one thing he wishes he could tell her, it would be to plead with her. _Please, please, still love me. Please, wait for me._


	242. Fever (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “I CALLED YOUR NAME TILL A FEVER BROKE”

Fingertips at his face, palms against his cheeks. Gentle over cheekbones, tracing the line of his jaw. Her nose brushes against his, breath warm on his lips. Stealing that breath, replacing it with his, his arm wrapped around her waist. Threading fingers through his hair, and the kiss is what he needs it to be. Something soft, full of affection, something harder underneath, fiercer, passionate. She lets him deepen it, pulling at her bottom lip with his teeth, and tongue touches tongue. She plays with the hair at the back of his neck as his other hand splays between shoulder blades.

Leaning against him, hip touching hip, allowing him to hold her steady. Trusting him with every inch of her, surrendering to the last. For how long has he dreamt of this? She has given him forgiveness, understanding, lifted the weight from his shoulders. How long had he twisted under guilt, under undeserving want of her? Hawke traces the shell of his ear, tucks hair behind it. She steps back, face flushed, guides his hands to the edges of her shirt. Raising her arms for him as he pulls it off, and she does not shy away from him.

Standing proud, stepping forward once again, and her hands find the laces of his tunic. Looking at him ever steady, the firelight flickering on her face. That bright blue, sparkling freckles, questioning smile. With his permission, a single nod, she pulls at the laces, slips the tunic from his shoulders. Hands running over skin, slipping down his arm, hand tangling in hand. Tilting her head upwards, kissing him briefly, and again, and again. He’s barely aware of moving to the bed, lost in thoughts of her, drowning in her touch.

Fenris stretches over her as she brushes hair from his face, playfully taps the end of his nose. Propping herself up on elbows to kiss him, as he kneels back. Lifting her hips for him to take off her trousers, for him to run hands over pale thighs, grab hold to her hips. She’s searching for that kiss again, swallowing him whole, and that flush on her cheeks is in her chest as well, the fire of her radiating onto him. Reaching between them to the buttons of his trousers, pulling him free.

She’s _more_ than he remembers. Reassurance in the kisses she presses to his cheeks, in the hands that flutter on his back. Legs that wrap around him, toes that curl. She’s biting her bottom lip, releasing it as she gasps, and all he can do is hold her. She writhes, arches her back, and presses fingers against his skin. “Fenris,” she says and he lifts his head, stills all movement.

“Say it again,” he says as she wraps her arms around his neck, pulls him closer.

“Fenris,” she murmurs against his ear. Burying his face in the crook of his neck, hands bruising into her hips as he takes up the rhythm again. His _name_. “Fenris.” For perhaps the first time, it doesn’t hurt when he hears it. When he thinks of himself. “Fenris.” Danarius is dead, and he knows who he is now. “Fenris.” He doesn’t think of the past, doubt himself, but now looks the future. A future with her.

“Hawke,” he groans, wrapping arms around her, holding her tightly, protecting her softly.


	243. Out of Reach (Fenris x Isabela)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hawke is full on pining for Fenris but even after years they still haven't done anything about it. Hawke doesn't want to overstep boundaries and every time seems like the wrong time with Hadriana, Danarius, Varania, not to mention Hawke's problems. Hawke finds out that Fenris has been seeing Isabela and can't believe they messed up so badly. Now Fenris is beyond their reach forever and will be happy without them.

It twists in her belly, kicks at rib and bone. That feeling she recognizes but will not name – for his sake. It coils around every vein and seeps into every beat of her heart, and has not faded. Will not fade. She keeps it drowning, anchored to some distant place, and the tangle in her throat begs her to hope when she sees him. She wrings her hands together as she walks towards him. He pushes himself away from the wall he had been leaning against, close to the door of her estate, a box in his hands. There’s some worry in the line of his mouth, and he holds it ever tighter with each step that brings her closer.

He had asked for space after they killed Danarius. She understood. Solitude and silence where the places he found solace, while she processed through drinking with friends, shouting in the loudest places. She had left food at his door, small letters in the basket. Bodahn would bring her the notes he left while she was out, small thanks written in struggling script. It was enough. Since that night all those years ago, it had always been enough. The touch to the back of her hand, his company at her side. She did not mind the wait, always knew she could. Now _he_ comes to _her_ , and she bites her bottom lip to chase away the smile.

“Fenris,” she says, “do you want to come in?” She already has the key in the knob, beginning to push it open.

“I wished to talk to you,” and he looks away from her, studies the cobble. “If it’s no trouble.”

“Of course not,” she says softly. He follows her to the study, stands and watches as she adds more logs to the fireplace. She lights it with a practiced flick of her wrist, magic that comes easy to her. She smiles as she takes a seat on the couch, sits back comfortably. It’s a moment before he decides to sit beside her, on the very edge of it, the box settling on his lap. She leans forward, the barest touch of fingertips against his arm. “Fenris? What is it?”

He pushes the box towards her. “I needed to return this to you.” The puzzle knits between her brows as she takes it carefully. Reaching for the lid, pulling it open. There it sits, neatly folded, freshly washed. She pulls out the token - that slash of red - and the anchor sinks a little lower. “It wasn’t – I couldn’t… I didn’t feel it was right for me to keep it,” he says. “I’m sorry Hawke. I – I cannot return your feelings. I hope you can forgive me.” He doesn’t wait for a response. Instead he goes to his feet, hurries for the door.

She leans back as the box falls to the floor, the ribbon inside a clenched fist. _A family tradition. For those we love_. Some part of her sang, the first day she saw him wearing it. Now it drowns, and she drowns with it.

They never need a reason to gather at the Hanged Man. She asks, and they come. One drink, and then another, another, until the laughter comes easy, until it hurts a little less. This is her true family, the people she relies on. Isabela and her crude jokes, Merrill and her quiet concern. Aveline scowls as Varric laughs, and somehow Anders has convinced Sebastian to drink. A small mercy that one of the others did not ask Fenris along. A surprise when Isabela leaves, claiming some errand. It’s somehow calmer after she leaves, and Hawke needs the chaos.

She stumbles through the streets, presses a hand against her temple. The world blurs, vision swims, and her steps are more hesitant than she means them to be. Perhaps it’s no surprise she gets lost, turned around in the twisting Lowtown streets. It takes her a moment to stand, to realize where she is. To turn, to find the right path. One that takes her past an alley, one that grinds her every being to a halt. A hand on cobble, peering down the alley. Even as she is, there’s no mistaking it.

An arm around her waist, a smile on his face. Isabela purrs something into his ear, arms thrown over his shoulders. He laughs, like a river over rocks, and Hawke’s heart aches. Fenris says something to Isabela, then presses his lips against hers, hugs her hips a little closer. Even when they pull apart, his smile does not fade. He’s – happy. He’s happy. Hawke blinks away the sudden tears, fingertips at her cheeks in surprise. A sober feeling which slices through the rest of it, the tangled mess of her.

At home, it’s easier than Hawke thought it might be to burn the token. She stands at the fireplace, arms crossed and unblinking, watching as it crumbles into ash.


	244. At Home (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "It’s bloody and raw but I swear it’s sweet for fenhawke please :)"

She tangles their hands together under the table. Resting on his thigh, finger locked between finger, palm against palm. She moves even closer, arm pressed against arm, and he feels the hard press of her chin on his shoulder. Turning his head to see her looking at him plainly, blinking bright eyes. “Will you stay tonight?” She never usually asks. He knows the offer is always there, her door open, but she never pushes, never pressures. Fenris squeezes her hand, gives her a nod. The smallest smile, turning her head to rest it on his shoulder. The others chatter endlessly on, pay this affection no mind.

They leave much the same way, still hand in hand, arm against arm. “You were quiet tonight,” he tells her. He says tonight, but means far more than that. He means the growing dark circles under her eyes, the nightmares that keep her up at night. He means the nervous glances she casts the Templars on the streets, the worried downturn of her mouth when Anders refuses to speak to her. Where once the Hanged Man was a place for laughter, it’s now a refuge – something like safety.

“Was I?” Hawke looks thoughtful as she ponders what he said, until she shrugs, continues to walk. He stops on those steps, and she turns back to look at him, a little surprised. Pulling her down to him, free hand reaching for her face. Brushing against her cheek, fingers curling at her nape as he presses the kiss to her lips. She leans against him, winds a fist in his tunic, surrenders completely. The taste of ale lingers on her tongue, the night air cool on her skin.

At her estate, he sits cross-legged on the floor by the fire. She passes him a glass of wine as she settles herself down beside him, a blanket wrapped around her. He places the glass beside him as he opens the book to where they left off, tucking the bookmark between further pages. She curls up like a cat, her head resting on his leg. She closes her eyes as she listens to the sound of his voice, carefully read words. He fixes that stray strand of hair for her, tucks it behind her ear.

He knows why she asked him to stay. Even without asking, he would have come to her. Without asking he would have held her, hugged her close. Chased away the dreaming, kept the nightmares at bay. How many times had she done that for him? His hand lingers in her hair, thumb brushing against her cheek. Pulling the blanket upwards to cover her completely, staying there as he continues to read. He can hear her breathing slowing, the twitch of sleep in her fingers.

Placing the bookmark, putting the book down beside the glass. He feels greedy, wanting to steal her away. There have been too few of these moments lately – too much time taken by Templars and mages, bandits and thieves. If he could lift that weight from her shoulders, he would. For now, all he can do is help her bear it, hope he makes her days a little easier. He lifts her carefully, carries her gently. Tucking her into the bed, crawling in beside her.

“Fen,” she says, and their legs tangle together. He smiles as her nose scrunches, as she buries her face in the crook of his neck. He wraps his arms around her, and smooths her hair, fixing errant strands. “I love you,” and it’s barely a mumble, a passing statement as she fades back into sleep. Hardly coherent, and yet she always makes sure he knows it. He holds her a little tighter, kisses the crown of her head.

“I love you too,” he tells the silence, and it sounds like a promise. Telling himself that he would keep her safe, that he would take her from here – that he would find them some sort of peace.


	245. Snow (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Great, how are we supposed to get home now?" for FenHawke? <3

The waiter and the cook are talking at the counter, casual and light conversation. One laughs at something the other one has said, maybe a little more than the joke deserves. Hawke has her elbows on the table, chin on her palm, looking adoringly out the window. The bill has been paid, the plates cleared away, and they’re the only ones in the restaurant. Besides the waiter and the cook, of course. Fenris is frowning as he scrolls through his phone, sighs as he lifts his eyes to the window. The snow continues to fall, layer upon white layer, falling gently over the city.

It’s brighter than it should be, the snow reflecting every bit of light. It falls through the bloom of the streetlamps, glowing storefronts. “There are no taxis running,” he says, “how are we supposed to get home now?” Hawke turns to him, positively beaming.

“We _walk_.” She’s already getting up, taking her coat from the back of the chair. Wrapping her scarf around her neck, pulling on her gloves. Fenris fights away the smile at the edge of his lips, follows her example. She shouts a cheery goodbye to the waiter and the cook, waves as the door chimes when she opens it. He holds the door for her, then follows her out. She fights her way to the street, maniacally laughing as she stomps through knee-high snow banks.

He follows after her, then stops, bends over. Gathering up snow in his palms, balling it together. It hits her square in the back. She instantly stops in her tracks, whirls to face him. “I can’t believe you’ve done this,” she says, “betrayed by my own boyfriend.” She dramatically falls backwards, feet making a brief appearance before disappearing yet again. He laughs as he wades through the snow to her, peers over to look at her. Tongue sticking out of her mouth, eyes closed, snow and hair stuck to her face.

“Very funny,” he tells her, “but we should go home before it gets worse.” It smacks him on the side of the face, cold dripping in his ear and down his neck, half knocking off his toque. She’s scrambling as she cackles, desperately trying to get up and run. He tackles her back down, and they laugh together as he straddles her, reaches for snow to pile up onto her. She reaches up, grabs the dangling strings of his hat, yanks it down to cover his eyes.

She pulls him down, and her face is cold but her lips are warm, and he can feel the smile in it. Half tasting her laughter, the lingering ale, all distinctly Hawke. She relinquishes him long enough to allow him to raise the hat, and she grins when his gaze focuses on her. Their faces are still close together, practically nose against nose, and he leans back only slightly to see all of her. The rosy red cheeks, the matching pink of her nose, the freckles that dot her face. Melting snowflakes on her skin, the fading wet.

He smiles at her, brushes his hand against her cheek. “I love you Hawke,” he says, “you’re so beautiful.” A red that’s unrelated to the cold, separate from the snow. Looking away shyly, suddenly bashful under his gaze. He chuckles slightly – brave Hawke rendered timid from a mere compliment. Not from every compliment, always only his. It makes him kiss her again, and again, and again.


	246. Spoiled (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "*whispers* fenhawke fic where she pampers and spoils fenris and he likes it/is kinda smug about it"

She pulls the blanket around his shoulders, and he feels gentle fingers brush away his hair. She kisses the space she’s created, then gives him another, and another – a kiss for each dot on his forehead. Brushing thumbs against his cheekbones, giving him a smile as she straightens. He crosses his arms on the table, leans forward and watches her as she goes. Humming as she works, moving to the counter, and carefully chops carrots. The celery is already diced, and the oil is beginning to boil. Fenris rests his head in his arms, listening to the pop and hum of cooking vegetables.

Behind his eyelids, the world swims, and he only barely feels her hand slip through his hair. She pulls up a chair as she rubs circles on his back, her other hand on his arm as she leans forward. She rests her cheek against his shoulder, and yet still he wants more. “You should be in bed,” she tells him, “I can bring the soup to you as soon as it’s done.”

“No,” he grumbles. He listens to Hawke’s soft laughter, and she peppers his shoulder in kisses before she’s off to check on the soup. He lifts his head only slightly, peering through bangs to see her stir in tomatoes, salt and pepper. She tucks hair behind her ear as she takes a wet rag to the counter, cleaning knives and the chopping block, cleaning as she waits for the soup. She smiles when she catches him watching, when he lets his head drop yet again.

She presents a warm bowl, a handful of crackers. Resting an elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, watching as he eats. He swallows as much of it as he can stomach, before it rumbles its displeasure. “Best not to push it,” she says as he lets the spoon rest in the bowl. “You can always have more later.” She stands and he stands with her, following her around the kitchen. He lets his head rest on her back, and she reaches back to scratch his head lightly.

He follows her like this to the study, curls up beside her on the couch. Resting his head on her lap as she runs her fingers through his hair, brushes them against his cheek. Making sure the blanket covers all of him, giving the tip of his ear an affectionate tweak. The sickness… well, perhaps it’s not that bad. It’s not that bad and yet – he snuggles in even further, closing his eyes as she opens the book. The sound of her voice is soothing, the warmth of her even more so.

This is not the first time he’s been sick since he came to Kirkwall. It _is_ the first time someone else has known. She had insisted he stay with her, telling him “let me look after you.” He could have suffered this himself, on his own, without any great trouble. But she tells him to rest, brings him water and reads to him – makes him soup. He forces himself to sit up, her arm still draped around his shoulders, buries his face in the crook of his neck.

She puts the book down, holds him completely. He smiles, relaxes into her embrace. She’s murmuring quiet things, whispers of love, and kisses the crown of his head. No, it’s definitely not that bad, not bad at all.


	247. Names (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "F!hawke/fenris “I’m leaving. And I’m not intending to come back.” & "please... you're scaring me"

Her fingers curl at his nape, press against his neck. Trembling as they move downwards, follow the line of his spine. Pressing her palm against his back, and her other hand is moving through his hair, her breath warm against his ear. Listening to her every moan and murmur, the sound of fire burning wood, the quiet creak of the bed. Lifting his head only slightly, and nose touches nose. Her eyes are half-lidded, her cheeks flushed. “Fenris,” she says, before he kisses her, strawberry plucked, red and raw. “Fen,” and it’s carried on a whisper.

She is the only one who calls him Fenris, every time, always. They call him Broody, or elf, or some amalgamation of the two. Then there are the names that came before, the ones he left behind. The nicknames have never bothered him. ‘ _Fen_ ’ feels like something else entirely. It’s her affection, same as the fingers on his cheeks, the way they caress. It’s how she tilts her head upwards, the ghost of a kiss upon the other, and ‘ _Fen_ ’ is the blush on her skin, her hand in his. It’s the arch of her back, the curl of her toes, and “Fen,” is the desperate plea pulled from her lips.

He wakes, and he knows he’ll never hear it again. He wakes with her arm across his chest, her face in the crook of his neck. He untangles his legs from hers, slowly sits up. Tucking that stray hair behind her ear, pulling the blanket up to cover her completely. The fire has eaten itself whole, only embers left. He tucks the blankets in around her, hates the way he does not want to let go. Bare feet touch cold floor and he never intends to return to that bed. He knows she won’t want him anymore.

He adds logs to the fireplace, strikes the match. Was his armor ever this heavy? He stares into the flame, and waits for her to wake. The blanket slips from her shoulder as she shifts, revealing porcelain and the freckles that dot her skin. “Fenris?” she asks, “is something wrong? Was it… was it – did you not want–?” He clenches his fists, turn to face her.

“I did. More than anything. It was – better than anything I could have dreamed,” he says. He thought he could do it. He thought he could look into her eyes and tell her. Instead, he looks away. “I – I’m sorry Hawke.”

“What’s wrong?” She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, holding the blanket to her chest. “Fenris, please, talk to me. You’re scaring me.” He lets the silence grind against bone and blood, that terrible churning that squeezes his ribs, turns his stomach. “Fen?”


	248. Hold out Your Hands (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: oo how would you feel about you've got a cute laugh or close your eyes and hold out your hands for Fenhawke???

Her fingers press against the tops of her feet. They knit together, twist and turn, give away the only sign that she’s nervous. Heels at the edge of the seat, legs pulled up to her chest. She tucks hair behind her ear, but it slips loose again almost immediately, brushes against her cheek. The fire crackles and softly burns, casts warm light across her face. Showing deeper shadows, brighter freckles, a glow upon someone who already glows. He holds the glass in his hands, wine that she brought, but he can barely taste it. He did not think she would come. He thought she would never want to see him again but here she sits.

Feet slowly find ground as she straightens her back, fixes her posture, hands resting on her lap. That damned strand of hair again, stubbornly brushing it back yet again. It’s slipping, and he resists the urge to fix it for her. “I have something for you,” she says as she leans over the side of the chair, picks up the box she brought. Fenris places the glass on the bench, watches as she holds it roughly, white knuckles, and she’s biting her bottom lip. Looking up at him slowly, finally meeting his gaze. “You don’t have to keep it if you don’t want to.”

Going from the chair, kneeling before him, and something in him twists. It’s some bruised and broken rib, pressing on his lungs, gouging organ and battering bone. She opens the box but he does not look inside, unable to tear away from the rolling blue, long lash, the dark circles that weren’t there before. She holds out her hand as she looks up, and the hurt flares when she smiles. “Hawke, I –”

“Give me your hand,” she says softly. Prying his hand up from where it was digging into the armrest, holding it out for her. Fingertips warm and soft, skin against skin, and it’s all he can do to remain still. The cloth is a little rougher, a little colder, almost Hawke. She wraps it again and again, clasps it in place. A red he recognizes, the symbol of her household on the pin. She’s still holding his hand, brushing thumbs over his knuckles.

“It’s a Hawke family tradition,” she tells him, “a token, of a sorts. To show that we – well…” she trails off, works at some knot between her brow. She’s biting her bottom lip again, staring at his hand. He leans forward. He tucks the strand of hair behind her ear.


	249. Beautiful (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I think you're very beautiful/handsome" for mahariel and zevran?

“I think you are very beautiful,” he tells her and she rolls her eyes. She pulls the arrow from the darkspawn, swipes at the blood on her cheek. Onto the next body, and the next, collecting arrow after arrow. She never lets anything go to waste.

“I think you are very beautiful,” he says as they fight side by side, as she drags the dagger across the bandit’s throat. She growls something he cannot hear, kicks away the next who dare approach her. It earns him a hard punch in the arm, and Zevran does not miss the way the tips of her ears turn red.

“I think you are very beautiful,” he says after the mages leave, as they stand in that almost empty tower. The twisted form of Uldred lies defeated, and the Litany of Adralla falls from her hand. She shakes her head at him, follows after Irving.

“I think you are very beautiful,” he smiles over the campfire, and Mahariel almost chokes mid-bite. Coughing and pounding at her chest, swallowing the last of the stew. The fork smacks harmlessly off his chest after she throws it.

“I think you are very beautiful,” he shouts up to her as her leg dangles off the branch, as she sits high up in the tree. The acorn comes down swiftly, and then another, and another. His laughter echoes through the Brecilian Forest as he flees her assault.

“I think you are very beautiful,” he murmurs as she cries, as he wipes the tears from her cheek. Eyes red-rimmed, cheeks splotchy, hair messy and still she is so lovely. Sitting in her tent, pulling her into his arms. She hugs him desperately, buries her face in the crook of his neck.

“I think you are very beautiful,” Zevran says to her as they stand in the arena. She throws her head back and begins to laugh, as they crown her the winner of the Proving. She puts her hand on his shoulder, knocks her forehead against his.

“I think you are very beautiful,” he leans over to whisper it in her ear. The smirk appears for only a moment before it’s gone, before she casts him a side-eyed glance. The court is still speaking, arguing, deciding manners of kings and queens. Her hands were linked behind her back, but one slips loose, tangles in his.

“I think you are very beautiful,” he groans as his hands hold to her hips. Mahariel’s hands press against his chest, the braid slips over her shoulder. He pushes himself upwards to meet her, his lips against hers, his arms around her waist. Her finger traces the shell of his ear as they move together, as she kisses him again.

He cannot find her. In the rubble of the tower, and in the streets they cheer, but here he only hears the flame. The snap and the break, through stone and wood, until he sees it. The body of the Archdemon, dead and gone, but he cannot find her. Pushing aside a fallen beam, moving stone after stone. There’s blood on her lips, pale in her cheeks. He goes to his knees, takes her in his arms. Her eyes open slowly, the smile is even slower, reaching up to twist a lock of his hair between her fingers. “I think you’re very handsome,” she says and the laughter is forced out of him as he hugs her closer.


	250. Known Better (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "An angsty pre-final battle "I should have known better than to get attached to you" Alistair/Tabris?"

While Riordan speaks, she looks at Alistair. She only half hears the words, the description of a darkspawn as an empty, soulless vessel. The explanation that a Grey Warden is not. Alistair’s jaw clenches, and he does not look away from the senior Warden as he listens intently. “Meaning… the Grey Warden who kills the archdemon… dies?” She can see it in the way he asks the question. He’s already making up his mind, accepting something she won’t allow him.

Alistair looks down at the floor as Riordan finishes speaking. She feels it just as much as he does, that weight on their shoulders. Should they fail… No matter what happens, Denerim is her home. If they failed here, more than just buildings would be burnt. She will do whatever necessary to protect her family, and Alistair – he has more than just an alienage to think of. Softly spoken in the night, whispered promises to remain in the Wardens, to travel together. Not anymore. The cost is too high. He needs to be safe, and where is safer but on a throne?

In her room, she crosses her arms and stands before the fire. She hears the door open quietly, as she expected he would. She stiffens as his hands caress her arms, his chest against her back, and a kiss to the crown of her head. “You should leave, Alistair,” she tells him, “we have a lot to prepare before tomorrow.” He only holds her tighter.

“I’m getting the feeling that something might be wrong,” he says. “Talk to me?” She shrugs off his touch, steps away from him, and the frown plain enough on her face for him to see.

“Didn’t I just tell you to leave?” He spreads his arms wide as he slowly walks towards her, as though she is some cornered animal.

“I’ve never been good at listening,” he says. “Listen, when we face the archdemon, if Riordan fails –”

“I’ve changed my mind,” her words slice through his. He’s surprised into a stuttered smile, his hand resting on the post of the bed.

“Changed your mind? About what?”

“Going with you. I don’t want to,” she tells him.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, grip tightening, knuckles white. It will be easier, when the time comes, for him to let go. She rubs the pointed tip of her ear, restless, again and again. Alistair is young, he is handsome, he is _human_ and he will find someone else. Better for her to die, because without Alistair – there is no one else.

“I do mean it, _shem_. You were a warm body on cold nights, but I don’t need you anymore,” shards of glass in her throat, stone upon stone on her chest, “you should have known better than to get attached.” She half snarls it, laughs it, watches as his face falls.

“You don’t mean that,” he says again. “Tabris – you don’t mean that.” Going to her, hands on her shoulders. It’s a last desperate plea, written on his face, _take it back, take it back, take it back_.

“I do mean it,” she says without a waver in her voice, “now get out.” For once, he listens.


	251. Despair (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For DA Halloween  
> DAY THREE || HERE LIES THE ABYSS: demons, spirits, ghosts and possessions… good and evil collide on the third day of the week, and your favorite characters find themselves trapped in the middle. are they stuck in the fade? were they struck by a spooky vision, haunted, or do they wind up being at the mercy of a desire demon?

A fingertip, and then another. Cold of a different sort against her flesh, a hand around her neck. Stuck in something like mud, foul smelling swamp, pungent water. She sinks and the graves sink with her. Bodies that float under the water, arms crossed over their chests. “The last,” it tells her, “you are the last.” It reaches down, places something in an open palm. It keeps its other around her neck, whispers in her ear. She breathes fog, and listens.

“Where is Hawke?” He asks it as he stands, pulls his sword from the corpse. Stepping back, letting the corpse fall into the fetid puddles that plague the Darktown tunnels. The torches on the wall barely hold their flame, weak and unsteady, and he doubted it would be any different if they were unlit. The only thing he can truly see clearly is Merrill, who holds a fire of her own in her hand. She turns, points her staff towards the entrance of a different portion of the underground.

“She chased one this way!” No one went with her. Reckless lately, more than usual, charging off on her own. Fenris keeps the sword steady, palms around hilt, as he storms past them. Listening to the sound of footsteps, the drip of water down cobblestone. His own shadow walks before him, as Merrill and Varric follow behind him.

Standing alone in that room, her back towards the entrance. Head lowered, staff slipping through her fingers. The torches flicker, the light recedes from her. He can feel the air shift the moment he steps through. Her head lifts. She slowly turns. Eyes wide and white, oceans banished somewhere colder. It starts to materialize, a ghost with arms around her neck. It weeps, and she weeps with it, the staff falling from her hand. She holds something close to her heart, and the demon keeps two hands around her neck. “Despair demon,” he barely hears Merrill say it.

Hawke breathes out smoke and ice, and the snow crystalizes on the walls. There’s bleak in his blood, a chill in the bone, and Fenris grips his sword even tighter. “She hasn’t given in. She’s just a little stuck,” Merrill says, “We have to kill the demon.” It opens its mouth, and the piercing wail rips through them. A thousand screams in one, a howl, a shriek, a cry, a sob. The ground shudders and shakes, hands digging upwards, and they are pulling themselves out of the dirt.

Leandra’s broken nails scrabbling at the ground, still in that wedding dress. They had buried her in black, just last week. Carver, all purple and pale, the taint pulsing underneath his skin, gone but not forgotten. Bethany is barely held together, all mangled and broken, precious and good. Malcolm spews sickness, the Hawke of Hawke’s. Decayed remnants of themselves, skin tight, a color not their own. “What are we waiting for?” Varric says as he pulls the bolt, lets it fly. Hawke recoils just as the bolt hits Bethany, pain that mirrors just the same.

He feels Merrill’s magic before she even raises her staff, but he is pushing himself off and away. Meeting Carver’s blade with his own, and these specters bar their path to Hawke. Fenris can hear its whispers, the mourning it unleashes, “the last, the last,” it’s saying, “let them die.” This is not Carver. Fenris pushes forward, the lyrium cascading its glow, breaks the defenses, cuts him down. Bethany and Malcolm are reaching, grasping, but vines are twisting around them, pulling them back down to the earth.

Varric works away at Leandra, keeping her pinned, and they create the opening. The demon cowers behind Hawke, draws blood as it holds tighter. Making her step back, making her open her hand, present the gift given to her. Red unfurls from where she holds it, a cloth, a ribbon, a token. A match to the one wrapped around his wrist. “Left,” it whispers, “alone. The last.” Despair he’s given her. A pain she never speaks of. A weakness he’s created in her, a void that allowed the demon in. The lyrium thrums in his skin, his blood, his bones, and he thrusts his hand through her, finds the heart of it.

Crushing it completely, listening to it screech. Bolt after bolt, fire and wood, and the ghosts of Hawke crumble away just as the demon does. Hawke falls forward into Fenris’s waiting arms. Holding her up, and that cloth is still in her hands. He hates the way it’s the same, holds her tightly as it fades into ash. Reaching downwards, carrying her in his arms. Merrill takes Hawke’s staff, Varric half drags his sword. They barely speak to each other as they make their way back through the tunnels.

Hawke wakes not with a gasp but with a whisper, blinking blue. Shaking her head as she focuses, a hand curling around his breastplate. Reaching upwards even still, fingertips at his cheek. “Fenris?” she asks, “are you – real? You’re here?” His hands dig into her arm, her leg, as he holds her a little tighter.

“I’m here,” he tells her.


	252. Guilt (Fenris x F!Hawke & Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For DA Halloween  
> DAY THREE || HERE LIES THE ABYSS: demons, spirits, ghosts and possessions… good and evil collide on the third day of the week, and your favorite characters find themselves trapped in the middle. are they stuck in the fade? were they struck by a spooky vision, haunted, or do they wind up being at the mercy of a desire demon?

She sits on the edge of the cliff, hands on her lap. Wind through her hair, black strands streaming across her face. Brushing them back behind her ear, turning her head. “It’s you,” she says. Trevelyan takes a seat beside her. Hawke reaches out, points into the distance. “That ship is new.” Following the path of her finger, looking at a ship wrecked on rock. The gulls circle overhead as the sun begins to set, mirrored light on the water. She’s not sure where she is. If Hawke is here, then she thinks she must be in Kirkwall.

Hawke turns to her, and there’s something different about the woman. She could have sworn her eyes were blue, just as the Waking Sea below them. Now, they shine with flecks of green. Hawke reaches out, wraps a hand around her wrist. The grip is painful, nails digging into her skin. “Have you come to gloat?” Trevelyan is trying to reclaim her hand, but she cannot shake loose. “Have you come to check in on your sacrifice?” The anchor sparks, spits anger, but still Hawke does not let go.

“Did you tell Fenris? Did you write him?” Hawke is staring her down, other hand snaking out, and wrapping around Trevelyan’s throat. “Did you put pen to paper yourself? Or did you have someone else do it for you? Of course. It’s never you. Poor little Trevelyan,” Hawke snarls as her lip curls, looking at her with something like disgust. “Who did you sacrifice this time? Will Varric ever forgive you?” She squeezes harder, chokes the air from her lungs. “He’s going to find you,” Hawke tells her. “He’s going to come, he’s going to kill you.”

“I don’t want you here,” Hawke tells her as she casts her from the cliff. The sun is rising into green, there’s fog in her eyes. Water that isn’t water, a sludge that swallows her whole, drags her into the depths. She drowns as she wakes, gasping upwards in bed. Cullen is up almost immediately after her, instinctively reaching for the sword by the bed. She’s turning, kneeling, hands fisting in his shirt and he gives up his search, reaching out for her.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Hands slipping up her arms, pulling her in. Rubbing circles on her back as she buries her face in the crook of his neck, as she struggles to breathe. Coming quick and panicked, trembling in his grasp. The anchor glows troubled, rolls frustration. “It’s the dreams again,” he says. He knows as well as she how dreams can haunt a person. The specter of it hangs off of her during the day, the dark circles under her eyes escaping no one’s notice.

She nearly falls when she sees him. Sitting in the front hall, talking to Varric. There’s a heavy cloak on his shoulders, one that can’t hide the large sword on his back. White hair, fine markings. He turns, and his gaze passes over her. _He’s here_. She can almost hear Hawke’s laughter in her ears. Fenris has come. He means to avenge his Hawke. Trevelyan finds her way to Cullen’s office. “He’s here to see Varric,” he reassures her, “the dreams are just _dreams_.”

They gather at the tavern. They ask her to come. She sits near to him, fights the fear that worms in her chest. Fenris is talking quietly with Varric, laughing at something he says. Leaning back in his chair as his fingers find the condensation on the glass, wipe them away. He still wears it. That red around his wrist, the token she knows Hawke gave him. How many times had she read that part of the book? Trapped in the Circle tower, imagining the life of the Champion. “She asked to stay. Said it was – something she had to do. She said she was sorry,” it’s as though she hopes saying it might appease Hawke’s ghost. Remind her that it was her choice, not Trevelyan’s.

His face twists. “Why are you telling me this?” The words sound ripped from him, vowel after vowel, the ache in his throat, distress on his tongue. Trevelyan recoils, and she can feel Hawke’s hands around her neck again. Fenris turns away from her, pushes himself away from the table. Varric gives her a sorry look, goes after him. She buries her face in her hands, Cullen’s hand on her back.


	253. A Threat (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Is that a threat?

“You did this to yourself. Your own greed. Your own selfish want for power. Now you have none,” Mahanon says as he pushes himself up from the seat, steps down towards her. Florianne glares up from where she’s held on her knees. “Common work for the common man. Farm Work. Do some good.” He looks at her, knowing she’s not capable of the thing. At least she would be miserable. He’s rooted to the ground as she’s dragged away.

“She had everything,” he says to Dorian, as he takes his place beside him. “She threw it away for more.” Dorian lets his hand rest on his back. Mahanon doesn’t move, doesn’t react to the touch. He’s still staring after the guards, that void where she used to be. He still isn’t accepting the clothes Josephine orders for him. Those things of silk and velvet. Still in worn leathers, that cloth, those things with secret stitches, patches too many to count.

He’s someone from the outside looking in, watching nobles at their game, not understanding the why of it. He’s still losing, watching them make moves to gain, sinking hooks higher and higher, stepping on everyone below. Finally one had lost. Fallen. A chance for Mahanon to look in her eyes, try to understand. All he knows is the anger. Dorian can feel it in the straight of his back, the hard line of his shoulder, the clench of his jaw.

Dorian leans in closer, slides his hand up his back. “I did enjoy watching you speak to her like that. Very authoritative.” Mahanon bristles for a moment, before shaking his head, smiling slightly. Coming back to himself, snapping out of the anger.

“Did you?” Mahanon slowly turns, and finally Dorian can see him easing up. Mahanon reaches up, curls his hand against his cheek. He leans in, close enough for Dorian to hear him breathing. “Maybe I should speak to you like that.” Voice lowered, leaning back with half lidded eyes. Dorian quickly reaches out, grabs his hips, and pulls him back in.

“Oh? Is that a threat?” Mahanon cups Dorian’s face in his hands, and the laughter is on his lips as he kisses him. On the steps of the great hall, in front of everyone else and Dorian kisses back.


	254. Fries (Varric x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: "there’s no ‘we’ in fries" -- hawke and varric"

Hawke’s feet on the table, one over the other, leaning back in the chair. She reaches over, steals from his plate as she scrolls through her phone. “Really? Again?” He asks dryly as he looks up at her. “If you wanted some, you should’ve ordered some for yourself.”

“Awe, didn’t you want me here to help? I thought we were a team,” she says, casting him an exaggerated pout.

“There’s no ‘we’ in fries,” Varric tells her.

“There’s no ‘we’ in team either,” Hawke points out, raising her eyebrows. Varric settles back with a grunt, his hands wavering over the keyboard of the laptop. “You should know that, _professor_.” Hawke’s feet thud on the ground as she pulls her chair forward, leans over the table. She reaches out, takes his glasses, grinning as she puts them on herself.

“You know I hate it when you call me that,” he says as he watches her whirl her head around, blinking rapidly. “I need there to be some sort of drama. Something to bring the two main characters together.”

“Kill a family member,” she shrugs. She takes off the glasses, passes them to him.

“Just like that?” he asks as he takes them. She crosses her arms on the table as she looks at him.

“Grief is prime bonding material, okay,” she says with a flourish of her hand. “You know you’ve got something when you’re sobbing your guts out, have snot leaking, drooling all over the place and he’s still there. Maybe you haven’t showered, maybe deodorant has been a little too much effort lately, but he still looks at you and thinks you’re beautiful? Bonded.”

“Mhmm,” Varric says as he adjusts his glasses, begins to type. Hawke’s feet are back on the table, the phone back in her hand. “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

“Always,” she says with a smirk, reaching over, stealing another fry.


	255. All My Life (Cassandra x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I’ve been waiting all my life for you.” cassandra x fem!inquisitor

It’s colder than it has any right to be. Sinking into the water, her hair floating around her. Gooseflesh over bare skin, the anchor glowing in the deep dark. There are frogs in the reeds, crickets in the distance, and the slow wind pushes sand into the water. The vast nothing of the Hissing Wastes affords the clearest sky – brightly blinking stars that flutter around the round face of the moon. She sighs as she allows herself to float, drawing in her feet, teeth chattering.

“Alone! Again!” Cassandra appears on the edge of the lake, fully armored, blustering red in the face. Trevelyan laughs as she stands completely, rising out of the water. Cassandra’s face turns red and she turns slightly in place. “You know you should not be wandering off. You are defenseless like this!” The water drops off of Trevelyan as she raises her arms in an exaggerated shrug.

“So you’re here to just watch me?”

“Yes!” Trevelyan doesn’t miss the small peaking glance, before Cassandra is turning away once again. She stretches out her arms towards her.

“Join me,” she says and Cassandra makes an indignant grunt.

“I will not. One of us has to keep watch.”

“Cass, I am a _mage_. I’m hardly defenseless.”

“You could be easily taken off guard!”

“Cassandra. Come and join me,” she laughs. Cassandra looks at her, looks away. Back, and away. With a frustrated sigh she throws down her shield. The sword, the breastplate, all the armor and what lingers underneath. Arms hugging around herself as she slowly makes her way into the lake.

“It’s _freezing_ ,” she hisses as Trevelyan swims out to meet her. Hands on her arms, slowly working their way around her, taking Cassandra into a tight embrace. Cold hands running up her back, dripping water, Trevelyan’s mouth on her shoulder. A kiss just there in the crook, and above, working her way to Cassandra’s lips, face in her hands. Slowly warming, Cassandra’s hands on her hips.

“It’s not so bad,” Trevelyan says as she slowly breaks away. She smiles when she sees the stubborn red on Cassandra’s cheeks, the flush that heats her whole body. Brushing a thumb over the scar, tracing the line of her jaw. “I knew you’d find me. I was waiting for you.”

The grip Cassandra has on her tightens for a moment before she surges forward, surprises Trevelyan with the hard kiss. All the stories, all those tales, and nothing felt like it does not, not like the real thing. Cassandra’s been waiting longer, all her life, although she doesn’t say it. Instead, Trevelyan squeals as Cassandra throws her into the water, goes splashing after her.


	256. Morning (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "JUST SOMETHING- ANYTHING- HAPPY FOR FENHAWKE. YOU'RE KILLING ME SLOWLY WITH THIS ANGSTTTTT"

A hard habit to break, rising with the sun. The breeze pushes and pulls at the curtains, allows the light to flicker through. Casting rays over her face, the curve of her, sunlight that pools around her belly. Fingertips over that long scar, tracing light, kissing the line of it. Such a thing, to be able to touch. Connecting the dots, the maze between freckles, watching the gooseflesh that rises in his wake. Smooth and soft, beautiful over every stretch, mark and scratch – all the pieces that tell the story of Hawke.

She does not stir even as his hand runs from hip to rib, leaning against her. A joke between them that she could sleep through the destruction of Thedas. He wakes to every toss and every turn, the slightest noise, the barest shift. A lifetime of being cautious, fearful and alert, but that is slowly being chased away. He’s always felt safest in Hawke’s arms. He sleeps best beside her, no nightmares to speak of, and no reason to feel afraid anymore.

She shifts as he presses lips against her collarbone, arms stretched around her head. Curling like a cat, back arching and heels pressing into the bed. Rubbing her eyes as she slowly wakes, and Fenris softly moves above her, between her legs with his head at her belly, his hands at her ribs. Thumbs working small circles into her skin, a kiss and then another as he feels her hand thread through his hair. “Good morning,” she says, voice hoarse from sleep, a smile on her lips.

Palm warm against his cheek and he savors the touch before she moves, playfully tapping a finger against his nose. Tilting his head to snap his teeth at it, listening to her laugh as she pulls her hand away. Mouth on her tummy, blowing air and making those noises which make her squeal, hands on his shoulders as she tries to push him away. “Fenris! Fen! Knock it off!” Squirming underneath him, all warm delight, and she’s reduced to helpless laughter. Smugly smiling as he stops, pushing himself upwards, trapping her beneath him as he peppers kisses against her cheeks.

Wrapping arms around him and pulling him down, stuck in her embrace, her teeth gentle around his earlobe. They settle together, tangled legs and warmer hugs, her fingers playing with the soft wisps of hair at the nape of his neck. The curtains shift, the breeze sweeps through. Birds chirp atop the roof, the sound of voices carrying up from the street. Kirkwall is waking, but Hawke and Fenris linger in bed. Listening to her heart beat in her chest, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Her touch, whispering words, and there is nowhere he would rather be.


	257. Pun (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Warden x Zevran for "If you make one more stupid pun I'm literally going to stab you"

She sits by the fire, knife in her hands. A jagged thing, of particularly unique design. Its hilt is clearly worn, leather and the like bound around it, curious shapes etched into the metal. She studies it intently, rolling it between her hands, a finger testing the edges of it. “You look like you’re having a _knife_ time,” Zevran says as he goes to the grass, sitting on the ground beside her, grinning up at her. She glowers down at him, some noise of disgust in her throat.

“It is an interesting knife. It suggests there is some story behind it,” he says as he folds his legs, hands on his ankles, puts his chin on her knee.

“It’s a long story,” she says.

“Well then, shall we _cut_ right to heart of the issue?” A roll of her eyes. She frowns as she holds it, some gentle reverence, and a sort of softness he’s never seen from her before.

“It was made for me,” she says, “by Tamlen.” He listens quietly, his fingers trailing up and down her leg. He knows of this Tamlen, whispered bits and pieces. It is as though she thinks speaking of him will conjure his ghost, a specter she is trying to leave behind. He kisses her knee as she turns it, looks at the symbols that mean nothing to him. “He said it would bring me luck. Keep me safe. Sometimes I think that if he had kept it…” He hates himself, in this moment, for being jealous of a dead man.

“My love, I think the outcome would have been the same no matter which way you _slice_ it,” he says with an adoring glance. He doesn’t miss the quick smirk, the hopeful end to her melancholy.

“If you make one more stupid pun, I am literally going to stab you,” she says, pointing the tip of her knife at his throat. He leans back as he raises his arms in defeat. The smile slowly works its way across his lips.

“Oh, my dear Warden, you don’t appreciate my attempts to make you smile and that _cuts_ me very deeply,” he tells her. She stares at him as she sheaths the knife into her belt. She holds up her hand, palm outwards, fingers outstretched.

“5,” she says. He cocks his head at her. One finger goes down. “4.” Catching the gist of it, he is up and running, laughing away from her as she chases after him.


	258. Coffee (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Warden x Alistair "I tried to surprise you but I spilled your coffee on the way over."

“She’s been here for two hours,” he says, nervously tapping fingers against the counter, “and she’s only had one drink.” Leliana is leaning against the counter, takes one quick glance up from her phone to the woman sitting in the corner. She’s typing away on her laptop, paying no mind to the two at the counter. Alistair is scratching the back of his head, some thought worming its way through his brain. “Should I bring her a coffee?” There it is. Leliana resists the urge to chuckle. Instead she drops her phone into the pocket of her apron and stands beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

“She likes the French roasts,” she tells him, and he’s instantly rooting through the cupboards, trying to find the right mug. He finds one covered in the happy faces of a mabari, something cute and quirky, something that says _I hope you like dogs too_. Leliana cocks her head as she looks at the young woman – glasses on the edge of her nose, dressed in a comfortable sweater, concentration in every line of her. She is pretty, what with that length of dark hair, dancers figure and plump lips. Ah, but she supposes she’ll let Alistair take a shot at this one.

He works quickly, and the rich scent soon fills the small coffee shop. Alistair looks at his work proudly, picks up the mug carefully. If only his steps were so careful. Half way there, he tips forward, and Leliana presses a hand against her face as coffee goes slopping onto the floor. The woman’s concentration is finally broken, turning her head to see Alistair standing awkwardly and staring at her, hot coffee all over the floor. Looking at the floor, and then to him, back to the floor. “I uh, this was supposed to be for you,” he says. Even from the counter, Leliana can see the crimson on the back of his neck, the flush she’s sure is on his face as well.

The smile spreads across her face, “I’m sure it would have been amazing.” She gets up from the chair, hands in her pockets, and there’s a slight blush on her cheeks. “Need any help cleaning up?”

“No, no, I’ve got it.”

“I – ah – I like the mug.”

“Oh! Oh! Yeah it’s my favorite.” Scratching the back of his neck again, quickly going to get the mop. She’s still talking to him as he cleans and Leliana snaps a stealthy picture. Saving it for later, knowing Alistair will appreciate it. Oh god, her number. Alistair had better get her number. Leliana stares daggers into the back of his head, willing the thought into his brain.

“Would – I mean, could I grab your number? If you want, I mean –” She laughs as she draws the phone from her pocket, begins giving Alistair her number. Leliana breathes a sigh of relief.


	259. Another (Unrequited Fenris x F!Hawke & Sebastian x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: What about a hawke and fenris pining for each other after their one night but she has to marry someone for reasons so she does, thinking fenris doesnt feel the same way about her? And the husband turns out to actually be a good man too. All the angssssttt

He has his hand on her back, just there, a gentle touch. He looks at her tenderly, adoringly, as she speaks, listening to every word. They make their way through the crowd and in this, as in everything else, she excels. Nobility has always been tiring but not difficult, her clever tongue and quick wit always ready with a keen retort. He keeps his head held high, that hand on her back, and it is clear to everyone else how he feels for her. Hawke turns to him, with that smile on her face, and Sebastian smiles back.

Fenris leans against the wall, looking at the white wine in his hands. A sweet thing, much easier to swallow than the red he favors. More tolerable, more palatable, something no one can find fault in. No one would dare upset the Prince of Starkhaven, and none would dare try and arrest his soon to be wife. The Templars can no longer touch her. She is safe – from their threats, their swords, and their scrutiny. It would not have been the same, had they… had they. That other red on his wrist, this certain favor, burns against his skin.

The band in the corner begins to play, some carrying song, and Sebastian leads her to the floor. An arm around her waist and hand in hand. They laugh as they dance together, put their heads close and talk in quiet tones. He will make her happy. Fenris puts the glass down on the nearest table, heads for the balcony. The cold nothingness of the night, trying to sweep away all those lingering thoughts. Lingering feels. How often had he thought of them having time? Time to talk, time to tell, to let her know that he still cares. That he will always care.

Fenris unties the knot of the favor, holds it in his hand. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?” she asks, one hand on the doorway. He turns slowly, hardly wanting to face her. The earrings dangle against her neck, but her throat is bare. Her hair has been tamed, no unruly strands stray across her face. Hawke smiles at him, goes to stand with him.

“Don’t you want to dance?” He asks her. She thinks for a moment, that soft hmm, as she plants elbows on the railing, looks up into the sky. Finally, she shrugs as she looks at him. He takes his place beside her, mirrors her stance, and they are almost shoulder against shoulder. He hides the favor in his fist.

“Never been one of my favorites,” she says. “And you?”

“No one to dance with,” he says. She instantly breaks into a smile as she reaches for him. Standing face to face, her hand on his shoulder. With the other, she guides his hand to her waist. She goes to take that fist, to finish this piece of the puzzle, but he steps away from her.

“Fenris?” He takes her hand, but not in the way she meant him to. The barest touch, before he ties the favor around her wrist. She stares at it, and he thinks that perhaps it burns her as much as it does him. “You kept it.” Her voice is hollow. She looks up at him, and he cannot look away. “I waited,” she tells him, “I waited for you.” He already knows.


	260. Right Way (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Would things be easier if there was a right way? Warden zevran

It’s a wheeze, more than a breath. Some whistling and whispered thing, laborious in the rattle. Her head in his lap, and he’s smoothing away the hair on her forehead. He’s making sure it’s perfect – each stray strand tucked neatly. Tracing the lines of ink on her face, brushing a thumb over her cheek bone. His other hand is over it, the arrow between his fingers and he hates the blood that seeps through. He feels the struggle in the rise and fall of her chest, and that wheeze, that wheeze. Fluttering eyelashes and she’s trying to open her eyes, trying to see him.

“Zev,” she says. She’s raising her arm, touching a bloody finger to the tip of his nose. He can barely hear her, the mumbled effort of Mahariel’s voice. Closing her eyes again as he bends over, touches his forehead to hers. Pressing his hand harder against the wound, that sickly feeling of liquid warmth slipping between his fingers. Zevran has nothing prepared to say to her, no ready retort. This feels wrong, more than the heat, more than the wheeze. In so many ways, they had done things the wrong way.

Their meeting had begun with a discussion of her end. He had heard of her, of course, this surviving Grey Warden who had felled all those sent to kill her. It was the reason he accepted. He thought death might redeem him, but she had outstretched her hand and offered life. A chance to be something other than a Crow. He did not trust it, not at first. Those first nights, and some after, he worried she might creep into his tend and kill him while he slept. Who would trust someone sent to kill them, a traitor Crow no less? He worried little about errant arrows in those days.

Now he holds her tightly, so much of his life tangled in hers. If they had done things the right way, would it have been easier? He could have said no to the contact. She could have left him in the dirt where he lay. “I love you,” he tells her as he has a hand tangled in her hair, as he bends over and presses lips against her forehead. “I love you, _mi amore_ , so much, my Warden.” How can he tell her how much she has saved him? Not just against blade and metal. Her hand slips over his, and he thinks she might know.

“ _Ma vhenan_ ,” she exhales.

“I don’t know what that means,” he says, his face twisting. Gathering her up, slipping an arm underneath her, her head falling against his chest. “I don’t know what that _means_.” If they had done things the right way, maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so much. That tightening in his chest, something like hands around his throat. She’s still bleeding, still breathing, and he needs to know. He barely hears them, crashing through the woods.

Wynne’s hand on his shoulder as she pushes them apart, going to her knees beside them. She pries away his hand from her belly, pulls the arrow without a second thought. Zevran stays by her, cupping her face in his hands. Crouched over, kissing her cheeks, and she feels so cold. “I will not leave you,” he fiercely promises.


	261. Loudest (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Honey you know thats my love bursting loud from inside fenhawke pls"

More difficult than it was meant to be, Hawke bends down to pick up her staff. It’s splintered around the middle, almost ready to break. It has weathered through more than its share, seen greater hardship than it was meant to. Fingers over the crack, the hacked and chopped, and she knows it’s time for a new one. It would not catch the next sword that was aimed in her direction, would no longer shield her from pointed metal, harder steel. Running a hand through her hair, feeling the blood that’s already sticky. Looking at it on her hand, and his is suddenly over hers.

Blood of his own on his as he laces their fingers together. Stepping closer to her as his other hand parts hair, and he looks at the small cut on her head with a steady frown. She gives his hand a reassuring squeeze, a reassuring smile. Fenris leans forward, and his forehead touches against hers. Listening to him breathe, the adrenaline slowly leaving the both of them. There are days she feels no better than the staff. Splintered and chopped, ready to break. She matches her breathing to his, savors the warmth of his touch. She knows he would never cast her aside.

It’s in the small things. The hand on her back as they leave the alley, the hovering closeness. Her staff may not be able to protect her right now, but she does not worry. Not as his knuckles brush against hers, the frequent little touch, the reminder that they are together. Small things, and yet so very loud. Gentle as he washes her hair, as he helps her change. Bandaging the cut on her arm, kissing the bruise at her shoulder. The loudest love she’s ever known as his hand rests at her nape, pulls her close for a kiss. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ears, and he smiles.


	262. Escape (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Lord itd be great to find a place we could escape fenrisxhawke

He lies down beside her. In that long grass by Sundermount, on that hill. Her hands are linked over her belly, and she is looking at the sky. The dandelions sway in the breeze and her hair moves with it, stray strands falling loose and drifting over her face. He tilts his head towards her, puts his hand between them. She slowly moves, rests her hand in his. He’s careful with the close, making sure his gauntlets do not touch her skin. She looks towards him and he offers a small smile when she catches his gaze, and she smiles back.

She knows she’s stayed for too long. He’s probably come to collect her, to get them on their way back to Kirkwall. She holds his hand and squeezes tightly, does not move. Instead, he does. Fenris slowly shifts, turning towards her, leaning above her. White hair brushes against her forehead, his hand warm at her neck. She reaches upwards slowly, touching his arm, his shoulders, as he softly kisses her. Closing her eyes as lips press against hers, as he breathes her in.

She cups his face in her hands as he holds himself steady above her, slightly leaning against her. Brushing thumbs over cheekbones, treasuring the halo of sun that frames him. Brightly green, he does not look away from her. There are so many things she wants for him. Things she cannot give him right now. She is stretched thin, pulled this way and that. He stands ever ready at the middle, and she doesn’t think she could have shouldered so much without him.

She wants to give him peace. A place where they can put down sword and staff, where the fight is no longer necessary. Some measure of quiet, bothered by no one and no thing. She wants to give him a library, books upon books, and all the secret things she knows he loves. “Hawke,” he murmurs as he kisses her again. Mouth warm and wet, stealing breath and thought, and this is what she wants. More than anything, just this.

The illusion is shattered by Aveline hollering in the distance, the impatient yell of her name. They break apart and Fenris is pushing himself to his feet. Helping her stand, and he chuckles under his breath as he fixes her hair, pulls the grass from it. “One day soon,” he says, “I want to go with you to Lothering.” Pressing his forehead against hers. “We will go where no one can find us.” Selfish, he supposes, for wanting Hawke all to himself. But she only agrees through laughter, wraps her arms around him in a tight and sudden hug.


	263. Tool (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Angel of small death zevranxwarden

He doesn’t remember what it was like before. All those other times with all those other people. He knows it was never like this. The same act, but it feels so different. Fingertips at his shoulder blades, slipping down the bumps of his spine. There’s reverence in her touch, some careful consideration, and she smiles when she touches his cheek. Moving to his nape, gently pulling him down as she tilts her head upwards, closing his eyes as he loses himself in the kiss. It’s a twisting feeling, some coiling warmth, warns him of danger he never expected.

Sex was always a means to an end. Now that’s somehow changed, and she is the cause of it. She traces the tattoo on his face, finds the matching curved lines that twist over his hips. She doesn’t have to look to know where they are, she’s already memorized every mark and scar. Perhaps it’s always been a means to an end for the others as well. They were the job. His body was a tool, just as his daggers, something to be used and discarded. With her, they’ve used each other in different ways.

Those first days, he did not trust her mercy. The sex was a way to keep him close to her, to find some way to soften her. She drifted, those first few times, and he knew it was not his name so close to her lips. A pleasant diversion and little more. Zevran’s teeth at her neck, soft flesh, and she runs her hand through his hair. “Zev,” she murmurs, and he runs a hand down her thigh. She keeps her eyes open, focuses on him and it’s _different_. He thinks he might have loved her first, even if he didn’t realize it. He’s not quite sure if she loves him back.

She’s pressing at his shoulders, turning him onto his back. Moving above him, hands on his chest, a flush on her cheeks and she does not look away from him. Those darkly shining eyes never leaving his gaze, taking control. Hands on her hips, watching as she moves in perfect tempo. That twist again, as she licks her lips, as she leans forward. Her fist pressing into the pillow by his head, her nose brushing against his as she seeks his kiss. “Zevran,” she murmurs, before tongue touches tongue, before she steals his breath and replaces it with hers.

Her other hand moving upwards, wrapping around his throat and he doesn’t fear. A thumb that moves along the edge of his jaw, traces the shell of his ear. He still has _that_. The earring. The burden heaviest, a reminder of guilt. The first life he took, the last time he hesitated. He will give it to her. He thinks her answer might give him an answer of his own. Lingering thoughts that will not fade, some small death each time he sees her look at him _that_ way. The way she does now, that softer smile, that worshiping touch and he does not know how to be anymore. He’s not a tool, to her. He isn’t being used. He doesn’t want to be discarded.


	264. Tomorrow (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "The sun will rise and we will try again" for fenhawke.

He sits on the edge of the bed, between those two posts, watching as Hawke takes off her armor. Leaving it on the floor as she rubs her face in her hands, stretching in simple leggings, a light tunic. She makes her way towards him with a smile on her face, wedging her way between his legs, a hand on his shoulder. The other traces the shell of his ear, the line of his jaw, settling underneath his chin and tilting his face upwards. The kiss is light and sweet, and Fenris wraps his arms around her waist. Resting his head against her belly, closing his eyes as she runs her hands through his hair.

She had been teasing him all day. Murmured whispers meant only for him, secretive glances, the smile that meant so much more. He was reciprocal of it, until he wasn’t. Somewhere in the midst of the day, his mood had changed. A certain melancholy he couldn’t shake, an anger he still struggled with. “I’m sorry Hawke, today I don’t think I…” he doesn’t know quite what to say. Whatever rage, whatever else, he would never put that on Hawke, bring it into their bedroom.

Fenris leans back, hands still on her hips, looks upwards. She brushes thumbs against his cheekbones, presses a kiss to the triangle of dots on his forehead. “That’s alright,” she says as she throws herself onto the bed, “we have tomorrow and the day after that, and the day after that.” Rolling onto her stomach, looking over her shoulder at him, feet in the air. “You’re rather stuck with me, you know.”

He smiles and joins her on the bed, and she turns to face him. Lying side by side, and she reaches out and tucks a lock of loose hair behind his ear. “Did you want to talk about it?” Hawke asks softly. There’s concern in the line of her brow, worry in the shine of her eyes. He shakes his head as she curls fingers against his cheek.

“Okay,” she says, “I’m here if you do want to talk.” She’s shifting closer, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him into the hug. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, closes his eyes as he breathes her in. Light touches on his shoulder and back, through his hair, against his face. Without saying a word, she knows how to calm him, how to pull him from what mood holds him. “I love you,” she says as she kisses the crown of his head.


	265. Argument (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: What about an argument for fenris and hawke? About a touchy subject maybe? I love them more than anything and for some reason love their angst more than anything

She asks him to cut her hair. Despite everything, he does. They are silent under the crackle of the fire, splitting log and falling ash. The soft sound of metal sliding against metal, hair that falls gently to the floor. She has let it grow long, perhaps because she liked it or perhaps because they were not fighting everyday anymore. The Champion has been long left out of the light, and she has spent those days by his side, reading books and sharing wine, letting her hair grow long. Each inch is as though he is cutting those days, butchering the quiet, killing the plans they made together.

It was Hawke who suggested selling the estate, or perhaps giving it to one of the others. Finding some quiet cottage, perhaps by a lake. Somewhere they can keep more mabari than socially acceptable, a place where her name, her title, doesn’t matter. She tells him they’ll fill each corner with books, and she’s always wanted to keep a garden. It did not take Fenris long to warm to the idea. No more awkward glances, a place free from being stopped on the street. The endless invitations to parties, the requests that the Champion intervene in one affair or another.

Selfish of him, he supposes, for him to want to spend their lives together in peace.

She touches a hand to the back of her neck, unobstructed for the first time in a long time. Taking the towel from where it’s tucked into her shirt, letting it fall to the floor with the rest. She turns in the chair to look up at him over her shoulder, the scissors held tightly in his hands. Knuckles white, the knot between his brows. He’s cut her hair and he knows he has lost. She smiles when she stands, touches a hand to his cheek. He turns away.

The argument has been cold shoulders, heated words. She insists she cannot stay, he tells her she does not have to go. She says that Varric needs her, that the Wardens need her. She tells him it’s too dangerous for him, but doesn’t he need her as well? She is wary in everything that she says, caution in every word, taking care not to reveal where she’s going. Worried he might follow. She does not say when she might be leaving and so he struggles to stay awake each night, in fear that he will wake without her. An exhausting battle, a war of silence, watching as she sweeps up the hair.

“I don’t want to leave it like this,” she says, his back to her. She watches the way his shoulders stiffen, how he puts the scissors down. He doesn’t deserve this. She thinks she knows what she’s doing, but there’s doubt in her bones. Kirkwall seems so small now, in comparison to what Varric wrote in the letter. A fight she does not want to drag him into. She knows what he would do to keep her safe. She doesn’t know what red lyrium, what fade rifts and all the rest might to do to him, his markings.

“Don’t go, or take me with you,” he says to their cabinets, back hunched and fists on the counter, shifting weight from one foot to the other.

“I can’t,” she tells him. He turns in a fury, stalks towards her, and takes her face in his hands. Holding her tightly in his grasp, and she would give anything to have him not look at her this way. Pressing his forehead against hers, thumbs over her cheekbones, restrained strength and trembling limb.

“Hawke please don’t leave me,” and it’s as though every word has been ripped from him, hoarse and cracked, and it’s as though she is caving in on herself. Ribs far too tight, lungs suddenly empty, stomach turning. Reaching up, wrapping hands around his wrists, closing her eyes. There’s some choke in the way he breathes, a tortured twist, “ _Hawke_.” She does not leave when he expects her to. Her pack sits in the front hall. She was meant to return from lunch with Aveline. Instead, she turns away from the estate, a sudden decision, finds the first ship out of Kirkwall.

After the third day alone, he follows.


	266. Enough (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "I worship you with the tainted hymns of funeral pyres"

“They are kept,” she says through gritted teeth, clenched fist, “in a cage.” Standing under the branches of the vhenadahl, looking at the dilapidated buildings of the alienage. “Corralled, like animals.” They had opened the gates for them, and them alone. The elves inside regard Mahariel with a careful wariness – looking at shining armor, the _vallaslin_ on her face. Perhaps they know her anger, far too familiar, and keep their distance lest it revive their own. She opens her fist, catches a falling leaf. She keeps the other wrapped around the hilt of her dagger, at the ready.

“Why do humans insist on caging all they fear? First the Circle and now this,” she spits out the words. Alistair exchanges a glance with Wynne, who only shakes her head. The other elves do not shy away from Zevran like they do her, perhaps they realize he is very much like them. He can see it, what she hides behind the anger. The disappointment, the fear that she could have been one of them. The cutting misery in the line of her lips, the straight of her back, the need to help and not knowing how.

He takes the leaf from her grasp, spinning it between his fingers. Shianni is the only one who dares approach them, joining their circle. “There’s a door around the back. There’s only one guard,” she tells them quietly, her arms crossed and fingers digging into flesh. Mahariel adjusts her grip around the hilt. Affixing Shianni with a steel gaze, putting her hand on her shoulder. A small squeeze and then she is turning, heading for the supposed clinic. She doesn’t know the language of comfort, action taking precedence over anything else.

“We’ll find them, dear,” Wynne tells Shianni quietly. Shianni doesn’t reply, only watches Mahariel’s back with shining eyes, some determination in the lines of her face. He knows that Shianni understood without Wynne’s clarification. Zevran walks a little faster to catch up with her, side by side, and she does not waste words with the guard. He makes one noise of protest as she draws her dagger, raises his hands and takes a step back, but she is charging him, drawing her blade across his throat.

* * *

They’ve rented rooms at the inn, and she paces in the one they share. Wearing a line into already worn floorboards, winding her hands restlessly together. The frown has not left her, not since they saved who they could, burned the rest. He remembers her through smoke and ash, staring at the covered bodies, blood on her armor. Listening to the muted crying, watching as the others mourned. And the rage in her, the _rage_ , just below the surface.

He has watched her pace but now he stands, in her way, takes her hands in his. Raising them to his lips, a kiss to her knuckles. “We did all we could, _mi amora_. You need to sleep,” he tells her. Her hair is still wet from the bath, bound together in a poorly contained mess, and he makes an effort to try and tame some of it, tuck it away. She raises her hand, presses his palm flat against her ear. The other hand at his, the pointed tip.

“Their lives could have been ours,” she says. “The Dalish, we – but what makes them lesser to us? We worry so much about what we’ve lost that we don’t see we’re still losing. We’re letting each other die, and for what? We let them be caged.”

“And are you going to rally the clans, storm the city and destroy the alienage?” Zevran asks her. She lets her hands fall to her side, looks away from him. “There is only so much to be done.”

“It’s not enough,” she says bitterly. It’s in moments like this when he feels it the strongest. The knowing. They will win against this blight, the archdemon, not because of the troops they’ve assembled, the allies they’re still acquiring, but because of her. He knows it because she says it’s not enough but she is more. Taking her face in his hands, thumbs over cheekbones, tracing the lines of the _vallaslin_. A kiss to one cheek and then the other, and she refuses him only once before she accepts. A lighter kiss over the longer one, as though sealing a promise.

“Come to bed with me,” Zevran smiles, “we’ll save the world in the morning.”


	267. Scarf (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Idk if you're still taking prompts but if you are: flustered fenris for fenhawke because that is what I live for

At first he savored the careful quiet, the way silence felt. Soon it became an echo he could not shake, reminding him of habits he dare not break. He sleeps with his sword by his bedside, if he sleeps at all. Most nights are spent wandering the halls like a specter, searching for the hidden figures he worries lurk nearby. By morning Fenris finds himself curled up in the armchair, watching flame burn wood, falling ash. His armor is always nearby, if he bothers to remove it. Ever the ghost whispering at his back, never daring to feel safe. His head turns as he hears the knock, the way her fist dances against the wood. He slinks from the chair, makes his way to the door.

Past falling painting and tattered drape, the ghoulish décor that earns him wary glances from all but her. She slips past him once he lets her inside, hugging some package to her chest. “I have something for you,” she says over her shoulder as he follows her up the stairs. “Sit, sit.” She gestures at the chair, still warm, does as she asks. Sitting up straight, hands in his lap. His breastplate leans against the wall. He’s wearing his gauntlets. Hawke beams as she presents him with it, this thing wrapped in brown paper, tied together neatly.

She leans against the stone of the fireplace, crossing her arms and raising a hand to her mouth. She’s trying to hide the grin, tapping fingers against her lips. The other hand plays with the loose thread at her elbow, and she crosses one foot over the other. She is relaxed, at ease, if not eager. He’s not sure if he trusts Hawke, not quite yet, but her cheer is infectious and he smiles as she urges him to open it. He’s careful not to prick the parchment with his gauntlets, untying the knot, opening it smoothly.

“I know it’s not necessarily your color,” she says, “but it occurred to me you might not know how terrible the winters are here sometimes.” It’s a thing of deep red, and as he takes it in his hands, he can feel exactly how soft it is. He feels guilty, for a moment, handling it with his gauntlets, unable to appreciate the feel of it fully. The scarf is long, almost absurdly thick. He knows what chases her, the squalor she lives in with the rest of her family. How frugal she is with coin, careful in how she spends it. The scarf must have cost a fortune.

She’s tapping her chin thoughtfully, casting a glance to the ruined ceiling above the bed. “Maybe I should get you mittens. Some sort of coat as well,” she says. “I’m growing rather fond of you Fenris, I’d rather you not freeze to death.”

Startled, his ears twitch as he breaks away from looking at the scarf to look at her. He is grateful her attention is elsewhere as he knows the tips of his ears burn red, the back of his neck feeling much the same. He worries the blush might creep onto his cheeks, give him away. He struggles with the words, not knowing what is quite right to say. “I have nothing to give you in return,” he tells her, and she finally looks at him, the deep smile spreading across her face.

“It’s a gift,” she says. If he had been given gifts before, he doesn’t remember. He holds the scarf a little tighter.

“Thank you, then. Hawke. For the gift,” he says, the sentence tangling on his tongue. Her smile softens.

“You’re very welcome,” she says.


	268. Malcolm (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Sorry to bother you but i was wondering if you could wright abour hawke and fenris having a son? Little mage son trying to figure out his powrs idk just a thought

He always thought it an impossibility, or at the very least, not meant for him. Circumstances that would never allow, a calm he thought could never be. He sits in the rocking chair by the bed as Hawke sleeps, their son in his arms. He had fussed for hours until Fenris sat down with him in that chair, the motion finally lulling him into sleep. There they stayed, while Hawke got much needed rest. Fenris holds him carefully, finger rubbing a soft circle against his cheek. Tracing the barely pointed ear, brushing a thumb through raven hair. He has Hawke’s eyes, Fenris’s nose. Blubbering in sleep, the spit bubble forming at his lips. Fenris smiles softly as he pops it. _His_ son.

“We have to name him,” Hawke says, voice hoarse with sleep as she shifts, pulls the blankets around her as she sits up. Fenris moves slowly from the chair to the bed, sitting beside her, crossing his legs. Hawke rests her head on his shoulder, smiles at her family. Curling up against him, her hand over his, thumb brushing against his knuckles. An impossibility. He means to protect this. Safe. Loved. A childhood that both he and Hawke never had the pleasure of.

“Malcolm,” Fenris says. He feels her hand twitch over his, gives away her surprise. They had spoken of it only briefly, once her belly had begun to show. The possibility of her bloodline, the magic that ran strong in both of them. It has been a long time since Fenris made his peace with Hawke’s magic. He knows how she uses it, who she is. She can teach the same of their son. Perhaps this Malcolm will possess the same as his namesake, perhaps not. It doesn’t matter.

“Malcolm,” she murmurs. Burying her face in the crook of his neck, and Fenris kisses the crown of her head.

* * *

“I’ll give you a sovereign if you set _those_ pants on fire,” Isabela leans over to whisper it to him, pointing at Hawke standing at the counter. Thrice patched, stained beyond repair, a sagging mess. Fenris knows them well, but still glares at her, shakes his head at Malcolm from across the table. Malcolm covers his laughter with his hands, while Isabela smirks. “No fun, you.”

“Are we talking about setting my pants on fire again?” Hawke asks as she takes a seat beside Malcolm, his food neatly cut in bite sized pieces. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: they’re most comfortable things in the world.”

“They’re ugly,” Aveline says bluntly. Varric snorts agreement. Hawke sighs, rolls her eyes.

“You come into my house, insult me at my table,” she’s saying as Malcolm tugs on her sleeve.

“Our house,” he tells her.

“Right you are. You come into our house, insult me at our table,” Hawke says, an elbow on the table, pointing an accusatory finger at all of them. “Am I going to get a little backup here?” She says, raising her eyebrows at Fenris.

“No comment,” he says, immediately digging into more food. Hawke feigns a shocked gasp. Laughter and discussions rounds the table, their weekly gathering. Merrill passes Malcolm a finely cut halla figurine, while Isabela is showing him how to cut cards. Sebastian is cleaning the dishes while Hawke crouches down beside Malcolm. Whispered instruction as he frowns, his hands out, lighting the candles from a distance. A cheer when he doesn’t set the drapery on fire this time, Hawke’s hand ruffling his hair.

Malcolm sits beside Fenris on the couch, trying to mirror his father’s perfect posture. Back straight, and shoulders square, the shyest glances over to make sure he’s doing it right. Difficult, to hide the smile. He shares a look with Hawke. No Templar or Circle would take Malcolm from them. She teaches him to control his magic. Fenris teaches him how to read.


	269. Homesick (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: h e n l o I love u and your writing!!!!! please feed me and do 53 or 59??? (this was really hard because I wanna request them all but I have to be reasonable or whatever) “I hate you.” “Why? I’m lovely.” / “I was just kind of hoping that you’d, y’know…. fall in love with me.”

He finds her some distance from the clearing, on the lowest branch of the thickest tree, spinning a stick between her fingers. Elbow on her knee, while the other leg swings down. He makes no effort to disguise his approach, but even if he had, he knew she would have known anyway. She glances down at him, and with a flick of her wrist, throws the stick down to him. He catches it without looking away from her face, smiles up at her. “You did not want to stay with the others?” He asks. She shrugs as she looks away.

“There’s something about this place,” she says, “it’s familiar, but it’s not.” The Dalish had welcomed them with open arms, welcoming their sister home. Mahariel looks back at him, a loose lock of hair brushing against her cheek, curling against the _vallaslin_. She lets her leg fall with the other, sits idly on the branch. Zevran drops the stick immediately, outstretches his arms towards her. Pushing herself forward, letting herself fall, and letting him catch her. Arms around her waist and feet find solid ground as he lowers her. His hands stay at her hips, her hands rest in fists against his chest.

“I didn’t feel it in at Redcliffe, or Haven, not in the Deep Roads, but here, I feel –”

“Homesick?” He offers.

“I suppose,” she says, and once against her gaze is drawn away from him. The grass and the moss, the leaves that line the forest floor.

“There is no shame in being homesick, my Warden. Perhaps when we are finished with this whole darkspawn business, we’ll go north and find your clan?” She blinks with quiet surprise, frowns with subtler confusion.

“You want to meet my clan?”

“Of course, I must see what other beautiful creatures this clan has been hiding,” he tells her. “I hate you,” she says as he smiles. Stepping closer and he glances at her lips, to her eyes. Standing near enough for nose to brush against nose, his fingers slipping just underneath her shirt. Zevran traces circles with his thumbs against bare skin, over her hipbones.

“Why?” he murmurs, “I’m lovely,” tilting his head just enough, eyes closing, allows her to close the kiss. Cautious fingertips at the line of his jaw, at his cheeks, fingers that thread through his hair. Leaning into the kiss, against him, and the stick snaps beneath her feet as she moves. Flattery gets him nowhere, flowered words earn her boredom. She is simple in her want – the truth. Tapping fingers beneath her chin as they break apart, smiling at her softly.

“I would see you happy, _mi amora_ ,” he tells her.


	270. Something New (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: Can you do something to fit a song mood? Hozier - Someone New

There’s a slash of white paint over darker jean, just there, on the back of her thigh. She spins the record between her fingers before she puts it on the player, swaying back and forth while placing the needle. She turns on her heel to face him, raising her eyebrows at him, shoulders moving side to side, snapping her fingers together as she strides forward. One foot in front of the other as the music plays, and he tries to hide the smile behind his hand, the other keeping a firm grip on the paintbrush. Outstretching her arms towards him, letting one settle on his shoulder while the other pulls away his hand, reveals the blush and the laughter.

“Dance with me,” she says.

“We’re supposed to be painting,” he tells her. Sheets over the few bits of furniture they have, cans of paint in every corner. She has a wrap around her head to protect her hair, the slightest smudge where she’s rubbed her cheek. Only half the room is white, the rest is the hideous purple the previous tenants somehow thought acceptable. She’s humming the song under her breath as she sways against him, looking at him expectantly.

“That’s a poor excuse, Cullen Stanton Rutherford, and you know it,” she says.

“You know I can’t dance,” he says as her hand closes over his, steals the brush away, throwing it onto their covered couch. Palm against palm, locking fingers together, pulling him forward. He allows himself to be dragged as he settles his free hand on her hip. Awkward and heavy steps as he moves the way she wants. Her fingers play with the soft curls at the nape of his neck, twisting at a longer lock, little playful gestures that are distinctly her.

“You can do anything you put your mind to,” she coos encouragingly. He shakes his head as he chuckles under his breath, puts his hand at the small of her back. Pulling her forward, letting her hand go in favor of reaching for her thigh. Lifting her leg as he dips her beneath him, as she giggles with delight. Guiding her into a spin, watching as red hair spills from its protective nest. Sweeping her into his arms, swaying them exaggeratingly back and forth. Laughing together as Cullen presses his forehead against hers, and the cars on the road outside their window stop and go without their notice.

“I told you so,” she says.

“Mm-hmm,” a wordless reply as he seeks her kiss, and he can taste her smile in it. Her eyes sparkle brightly, a green like gold, licking her lips as they break away. He fumbles with the brush she throws back at him, paint on his hands and on his shirt. Reaching down to dip it into a can, pulls it dripping. She squeals as he draws a line down her defenseless back, runs away from him. A dance of a different sort as they chase each other, joy echoing on empty walls. The first of the few weeks they’ve lived together and he can’t imagine it any other way, loving her a little more each day.


	271. A Feeling (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 18!!!! “I think I’m having a feeling. How do I make it stop?”

Captured by flame, sparkling in her eye. Heat that burns through the skin of her, a light that flickers against her face. She’s sitting closer than she usually does, on that fallen log, elbows on her knees. Hands clasped tight, fingers digging and knuckles white. She has not bothered to pull back her hair as she usually does, and so it spills over her shoulders, curls at her cheek. A leg occasionally bounces, some idle thought, one she quickly banishes for another. Zevran takes a seat beside her, leaning against her, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

He knows better than to ask about the itch that scratches her, although he can guess at what it might be. The Guardian standing at the gateway, asking her to proclaim guilt loud enough for the Maker to hear. The specter that waited inside, the Tamlen that didn’t exist, telling her there was nothing she could have done. She had put her hand against his cheek, and for a moment, the ghost was real. The amulet he had given her now hangs around her neck, tucked behind her shirt. “What would you have said,” she turns her gaze towards him, “if it were Rinna? In the gauntlet. Waiting for you.”

Zevran sits up a little straighter. Sometimes it’s a terrible curse, being right all the time. “Would it be terrible of me if I said I did not see the point? Whatever it was that appeared, it was not the real Tamlen, nor would it have been the real Rinna,” he says. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, staring into the fire. The frown works its way from the knot in her brow to the line of her mouth, until finally, she sighs.

“You’re right,” she says, “There’s no point.” Running a hand over her face, through her hair. “I’m just tired.” Zevran reaches out, rests a hand over her wrist.

“Perhaps we should go to bed _mi amora_ ,” he says. She smiles briefly at him, and she lets go of where she’s holding so tightly to let fingertips slowly slide over his hand. Circling his knuckles, tracing delicate bone. The lightest touch, the softest one, and he moves a little closer. A hand at the small of her back, resting on her waist, lips against her temple, a kiss to the crown of her head.

“Pardon the interruption,” Morrigan says as she strides forward, boredom in her voice, “but do you hear that?” They break apart as Mahariel stands, that frown returning to her face. She shakes her head.

“I don’t hear anything,” she says.

“Exactly.” Morrigan has her staff in her hands, and the rest are slowly joining the circle around the fire. Alistair comes carrying their daggers, stands very near to her.

“Do you think it has something to do with the dream we had last night? It felt like the Archdemon _saw_ us,” he says it in hushed tones. Mahariel shrugs, her eyes scanning the treeline. They are silent but for the subtle shifts in stance, quiet breathing, the crackle of logs succumbing to flame. The amulet gleams underneath her shirt, that loose tunic, armor too far away now. The shrieks materialize from nothing, shadows that scream, claws that rake forward. Zevran moves quickly, supporting Wynne’s left.

They fight without needing instruction. From one to the next, blades that draw blackened blood. It oozes upon the grass, rots the soil. Careful not to get it on him, pulling his dagger quickly. Zevran spies the one in the back, the one who does not look like the others, some twisted joke of an elf. Stepping quickly, and his shining blade meets one fouled by rust and grime. Quick strikes, so many openings, and Zevran stomps his foot against the creature’s knee, sends it tumbling to the ground. He half falls with it, raising the blade high, ready to strike down.

“Zevran!” She wraps her hand around it, red in the black, pulls him by the neck of his shirt. Throwing him off of the creature, and there’s a smudge of dirt on her cheek. Breathing heavily, face flush with exertion, and she’s staring at the thing with wide eyes. It shies from her, looks away. Mahariel kneels down, puts a hand against its cheek, and makes a ghost real. “Tamlen?” She asks, the words half choking in her throat. Zevran stares from her to it, and his fists tear at grass.

There’s some horror that beats in his chest, some hollow desolation that tears in his stomach. He doesn’t know what to call it, this feeling. The tightening of rib, the quickness of breath. Watching as the amulet dangles forward, as she traces the dark spots that mar Tamlen’s skin. His eyes are empty but they are watching her, calling her something Zevran doesn’t understand. “ _Vhenan. Ma vhenan_.” No, he doesn’t know what to call this feeling. He just wants it to stop.


	272. Relief (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 43 for Alistair/warden bb

Such relief in his throat, tearing words from his tongue, “thank the Maker.” Finally she is awake. She blinks once, twice, as though surprise to find he cares she lives. Closing the space between them, his hands hard on her arms as he examines her. In the pond behind him, frogs croak and cattails rustle amongst the reeds. Alistair thinks he might hear Flemeth chuckling, but he pays it no mind. Without hesitation, he pulls her into a deep hug. Her surprise again, stiffness that slowly eases, her hands patting at his back.

It’s a feeling that doesn’t fade. After every battle, he looks for her and when he finds her standing – the _relief_. Crushing through bone and blood, a kick to his gut. She pulls an arrow from the darkspawn, blackened blood dripping down wood and metal, and a loose strand of hair curls at her cheek. She doesn’t know the look he casts at her back, shoulders and spine, the shuddering breaths he takes. He tells himself it’s because they are the last Grey Wardens of Ferelden. Alistair tells himself it’s because he couldn’t do this alone.

She crosses her arms and throws her head back, laughs at something Zevran tells her. The elf is grinning, pleased with her laughter, continues speaking. The smile remains on her face as she replies, and he watches as a hand slips loose. She always talks with her hands. Alistair turns his face away when her gaze settles on him momentarily. He fights the threatening blush, the heat at the back of his neck. He looks back once the laughter returns, continues dragging the sharpening stone down his blade. Each pass earns a deeper glare in Zevran’s direction.

The next battle is a mess. Barely able to hear her shouted instructions, unable to see further than what is just over his shield. Striking out, pulling in. A bash against a breastplate, charging forward. He stands breathless at the end of the hallway, the darkspawn dead behind him. Looking around, looking for her. Zevran and Wynne by his side but she – everything inside him tightens. Lungs squeezing, heart pounding. Running back down the hallway, finding her leaning against a wall.

Closing the space between them, his hands hard on her arms as he examines her. In the hallway behind him, blood settles and bodies slump. Alistair thinks he might hear Zevran chuckling, but he pays it no mind. Without hesitation, he pulls her into a deep hug. She returns it in full, holding him tightly, closing her eyes.

“Careful,” Wynne warns him by the fire, “you’re changing. She’s changing. It will be dangerous for you both.”

“She’s my best friend,” Alistair tells her, “that hasn’t changed.”

“It’s clear your feelings for her have.” Alistair looks over the fire, sees her speaking with Morrigan. Explaining something clearly, hands dancing in midair. The smile eases on his face as he looks at her, her gushing enthusiasm, the way her eyes light up and the way she looks against the fire. He tells himself it’s because they are the last Grey Wardens of Ferelden. Alistair tells himself it’s because he couldn’t do this alone. He knows he can’t do it without her.


	273. Scars (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: "41 for fenhawke? “Show me your scars.” “But… why?” “I want to see how many times you needed me and I wasn’t there.”"  
> aka the prompt that made me want to write a whole fic... Non Believer

He says little as they drive. Sitting in the back, one leg crossed over the other, an elbow resting against the window. Mouth against knuckles, studying the passing lights. One after the other, underneath streetlamps. He says little so she says nothing, hands on the steering wheel, checking the mirror. A careful left, turning off the headlights as they move down the alleyway. Crawling to a halt, and the other cars behind them do the same. She opens the door for him, closes it once he’s out. He holds a gun in one hand, other arm in a sling. She reaches for the gun at her belt.

He allows her to lead the way, following behind her, the rest of them like a circle around him. Another opens the door, and she walks through – two quick shots, silenced, catching the bullets and the body, lowering it slowly to the floor. He steps over it as he follows her. They clear the building room by room, and there’s blood on her suit, flecks on white. The last room is louder. She kicks the door open and the rest flood in, she close behind.

Throwing over the table for cover, taking a quick look at those in the room. Two to her left, three on the right. He checks his watch as he waits outside the room. She’s breathing heavy two minutes and thirty nine seconds later, gun in her belt, running a hand through her hair. “We’re ready for you sir,” she tells him. Pushing himself away from the wall, entering the room, and his finger is tapping at the trigger. The one they’ve left alive is sitting on a chair, guarded with hands on shoulders.

“Hadriana,” he says as she pulls up another chair for him, and he takes it, “bold of you to try and kill me.” He gestures at the arm in the sling. Hadriana has blood on her face, but he can’t tell if it’s hers or not. It paints the side of her head, drips around her neck looking not unlike a noose. He lets his elbow rest on his knee as he taps the gun against Hadriana’s knee. She’s glaring at him, lips pursed, a sheen of sweat covering her skin.

“It almost worked,” she spits. At his side, Hawke subtly flinches. A twitch of her brow, nothing more, remembering the failure. Fenris leans back in the chair, chuckles under his breath. This sudden amusement seems to frighten Hadriana more than his anger, and she trembles where she sits. He raises the gun, smiling as he levels it with her head. The others dig fingers into flesh, hold her steady. “Wait! Please! I can tell you where he is, I can give you –”

“I don’t want anything of yours.” The flash is quick, the gun loud.

He says little as they drive. Sitting in the back, one leg crossed over the other and he’s loosening his tie. Light against glass, one after the other, underneath streetlamps. Fenris says little so she says nothing, hands on the steering wheel, pulling up to the building. Hawke opens the door for him, closes it once he’s out. “Come with me,” he says without looking at her. They ride the elevator in silence, stopping at his floor. He passes her the keys, and she unlocks the door. Locking it behind them, and she stands at attention, hands clasped behind her back.

“How long have you been working for me Hawke?” He opens the bottle with one hand, pours a small amount of amber liquid into the glass. He downs it quickly as he leans against the desk, watching as she moves to stand before him. Her hands are still behind her back, and the gun in her belt.

“Seven months, sir.” He puts the glass down on the table.

“I told you not to call me that,” Fenris says, “come help me out of this.”

“Yes sir,” and he scoffs as she moves forward, careful hands at the sling. Putting it on the table as she undoes the button of his suit, gently removes the jacket. Swiftly at his tie, folding it over the jacket, and onto the button down. Button after button, and he remains at ease as she goes. He reaches upwards with his good arm, warm hand at the back of her nape. Pulling her face down, capturing her lips with his. She steps into the kiss as the shirt falls onto the desk, her hands moving over his shoulders, his arms.

She stops when she finds the bandage, the cause of the sling, and frowns. He watches her carefully. “May I look?” She asks. He shrugs. At the metal clasp, rolling the bandage in her hands as she goes. She brushes fingers over the healing scar, the angry red.

“Why did you want to see?” She looks up as his question, as his other hand pulls at her waist.

“I should have protected you, sir. You needed me and I –”

“Ran after the shooter. Interrogated him. Brought me the right information. Allowed for my retribution,” he tells her. “Stop calling me sir.” She keeps her hand over his arm, and that mark, the other at his face. Thumb over cheekbone, tracing the line of his jaw.

“Yes sir,” she smiles against him, swallows his noise of frustration.


	274. Blood (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "7

He dreams of their faces. They lie at his feet, and lifeless eyes follow him as he walks. Blank and grey, turning in their heads. He steps over limb and fallen bow, and the leaves crumble underneath his feet. It should be day and yet there’s only darkness, some black abyss above the canopy of trees. He stands in the middle of it all, and still they watch, and still they accuse him. He was the one who made the decision. The wrong decision. They have killed all but one, the last Lavellan.

He wakes, and his hands shake. Running them through his hair, over his face, as he sits up slowly. Feet press into a warm bed, soft blankets fall from his shoulders. Wrapping arms around his legs, knees at his chest, and he squeezes his eyes closed. He wills away their faces, clenches his hands into fists. Digging fingers into palms, the tender ache and hiss of pressure on the anchor. He thought he could manage, but nothing has been able to chase away the nightmares.

There’s still sweat on his back, but he pulls the shirt over his head anyway. Already in his leggings, and his hands back into fists. The stone is cold underneath his feet, and as he walks the hallway still under construction, he can see his breath in the morning air. Skyhold is uncharacteristically quiet this early, but he knows that one will be awake. The anchor whines a displeasure that he doesn’t notice, and his hands still shake. Dorian puts the book down when he sees him, resting it against his chest, lounging leisurely in his library chair.

“And here I thought I wouldn’t see you for at least three more hours, you do like your –” whatever he was going to say dies a sudden death as Lavellan curls in his lap. Nestling his head in the crook of Dorian’s neck, hugging his arms to his chest. Legs drape over the armrest, and Dorian is quick to let the book fall to the ground, to pull him even closer. He’s shivering in the cold, pressing against him, and Dorian can hear the hiss of a closed anchor. Reaching for his fist, gently tugging it open. “Is that blood?” Lavellan looks down at his now open hand.

“No?”

“That’s not a question you’re supposed to answer with another question,” Dorian tells him as palm presses against palm, the anchor quieting as his magic mixes with it. Healing the hurt as best he can, Lavellan’s grip tight around him.

“Tell me what it is, _amatus_ ,” Dorian says quietly. A shuddering breath, and from the first word, Lavellan knows he won’t be able to stop. It comes tumbling out of his mouth, quick and slightly mumbled, all of the things he thinks makes the Inquisitor seem weak. Dorian listens quietly, does not interrupt. Not until the end. A single kiss to his forehead, where _vallaslin_ lines weave, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

That night, he does not go to bed alone. “Can you believe it? Ink, all over the sheets. How could I possibly sleep in that?” Dorian says as makes himself at home, throwing back the covers of Lavellan’s bed. Sliding in beside him, lying on his side, resting a hand on Lavellan’s chest. “They clearly spared no expense with your bed. I think I’ll stay.” Lavellan laughs softly as he shuffles closer, affectionately rubbing nose against nose. The kiss is no less loving, sincerely grateful.


	275. After (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Are you taking requests? If so could you do some fenris x fem!hawke where hawke calms ten down after having a huge anxiety attack? I’ve been having some issues with intimacy and really relate to fenris so maybe some comfort from hawke could help both of us? I absolutely adore your writing it means so much to me to read all your fenhawke works"

It strikes him when he’s at home, hand on the kettle. In the midst of pouring himself water, mixing the tea, and his hand shakes. Palms against the counter, and it only seeps into the rest of him. Swiping at the cup, watching it shatter to the floor. Weaving like vine around bone, and his markings flare, burn inside his skin. Eerie blue against counter and cabinet, floor and table, and his hand still shakes. Rasping breath and churning lung, collapsing in the corner, bringing his knees to his chest. He can still feel the tendrils of magic, the way they _held_ … how powerless he was against it.

It was supposed to be an easy job. They were laughing as they walked the coast, talking about nothing, Isabela with the cat’s cradle between her fingers, teaching Merrill how to play. Sun bright and shining down, sand beneath their feet and waves crashing against rock. Seagulls that crowd, point out the bandits they’re meant to find. It was supposed to be an easy job. They weren’t supposed to have a mage. Rushing in, sword outstretched, and the mage reached into him. The collar, the chain, forcing him to his knees. Foolish of him, to think no one but Danarius could do this. Hawke’s hand on his shoulder, cool water over the burn, freeing him for the kill. They weren’t laughing when they walked back.

The silence is loud in his ears, a shrill pitch, and he wraps his arms around his head as his forehead rests on his knees. Tucking himself close, and he barely hears the knock. Another and then another, the rattle of the handle. “I know you hate it when people barge in, and I’m sorry, but I promise I’ll buy you another door.” It’s shouted, meant for him to hear, moments before the heave, the shove of unseen air, the doorknob falling to the floor. She finds him easily. “Oh Fen,” she says softly.

Hand on the counter and she’s kneeling down beside him, close and never far, a distance she knows he wants, and waits. “Go away,” he rasps. He holds himself tighter, eyes squeezed closed, feeling the heart pound in his chest. He doesn’t want her to see, want her to know, the way he is at his moment – the way he doesn’t want to be, the way he thought he’d never be again. She doesn’t react, doesn’t flee, and doesn’t leave his side.

“I know you think you want that,” she says, “but you’re not alone anymore. You don’t have to face this by yourself.” A light touch, just there, on his shoulder. The markings flare brighter but she does not move, is not afraid. “Fenris.” Her other hand, tracing white knuckles with gentle fingertips, wrapping around his wrist. He allows her to gently tug it away, to breach the cocoon he’s made, palm warm and thumb tracing cheekbone, slowly lifting his face to look at her. She shifts ever closer, presses her forehead against his.

“I can – I can _feel_ it – it was _inside_ me, and I – I couldn’t,” he’s trying to explain but she already knows, and that thumb is still moving in circles on his skin, the other hand drifting over his back. Pulling him closer, and she is solid while his world is melting, reaching out and wrapping arms around her. Threading a hand through his hair, kisses against the crown of his head. Matching his breathing with hers, listening to way she whispers.

“Fenris, my Fenris. I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again,” she tells him, “I won’t allow it.” He sinks into her embrace, and the mug is still shattered, the water growing cold. “I have you.” His hand still shakes, but his markings dim, “I have you.” Closing his eyes as she holds him close, “I’ll keep you safe,” and he shakes a little less, “I love you.”


	276. Remarkable (Zevran, Alistair, Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "This is lame but could you do a love triangle between Alistair Zevran and the warden"

Alistair gives away the game too easily. All those longing looks cast at her back, the way he melts to her every whim. He plucks a flower and thinks himself subtle, does not realize the glance Zevran gives him. He gives away the game and so Zevran must play. A curious thing, something he wouldn’t have cared about before. She stretched out her hand, plucked him from ground and crow, and so he gave her a length of willing chain. He would not see it see cast away in favor of a _rose_.

He braids her hair. Alistair watches from the other side of the flower as she sits cross-legged on the ground, eyes closed, hands in her lap. Zevran weaves the braid as they talk to each other, and despite the fact that he is the one making her laugh, Alistair smiles at the sound. She replies quickly and Zevran’s shocked look soon fades into laughter of his own. They speak so readily with each other, so much at ease, and Alistair’s stomach twists. His own tongue is tied in her presence, his mind racing for the right thing to say and despite it all, surely she wouldn’t choose the one who tried to assassinate her. Surely.

She hisses displeasure as Zevran pushes the needle through skin, deftly stitching the gash in her thigh. “I am almost finished,” he tells her as he presses a kiss to her knee, ties the knot. Another growl as he washes it with alcohol, but he only chuckles.

“Thank you Zevran,” she says as she puts her trousers back on, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” A wound all his own, an arrow in his chest, slicing through blood and bone. She doesn’t know what her words do, how her hand feels on his arm, what her lips do when pressed against his cheek. All gratitude and warmth, and he cannot help but reach for her as she walks away, an arm around her waist, sweeping her into his arms.

For all his stumbled words, kissing her is easier than breathing. She tastes like a rose herself, petals on her tongue, and she leans her body against his. A heat, a fire, a flame, scorching on his skin, and the rose is held tight in her hands. Alistair aches with want of her, the urge to monopolize, but she pulls away with fingers on her lips and he lets her go, his breath all but stolen. She looks over her shoulder only once, cheeks still flushed, and he returns her smile.

“A remarkable woman,” Zevran says to him as they walk side by side.

“Yes, she is,” Alistair says. They look away from the path to look at each other, and yes, the game is still being played. They move their own pieces, knights that flock to the queen, and know they will not win. Not without being chosen by her. She walks ahead of them, hands clasped behind her back, talking softly to Wynne. She does not look behind her, knowing her back is well guarded.


	277. Don't Have To (Varric x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "F!hawke/Varric 60 please :D “It’s okay. You don’t have to love me.”

At first, it was only his table. He needed the noise, he found, to be able to work properly. He couldn’t get rid of the bench built into the wall, of course, but there was only ever a need for one chair. His chair, his corner. Then she had come, and it became their table, their corner. Hawke and her raven-hair, bright-eyed and full of laughter. Along with her came the medley of lost souls, these lost children she had rounded up and adopted. He might have thought himself another, strung along for the ride, save for the way she looked at him.

His nose is practically against the page, quill scribbling as fast as his mind can conjure the words. He’s startled when the mug is slammed beside him, flecks of foam hopping onto the parchment. She’s walking around the table, sliding onto the bench, sitting close beside him. She has her own mug in her hands, and she hums slightly as she leans to look at what he’s writing. She rests her chin on his shoulder as she reads, and he puts his quill down. “You,” he tells her, “are a huge distraction.”

“You like it,” Hawke says as she smiles. Sitting back to take a sip of ale, resting an elbow on the table. He crosses his arms and leans back in the chair, watching as she puts cheekbone against knuckle, raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Just wondering what you’re up to,” he says.

“Me? Nothing? Just came to check in on my favorite dwarf,” and her smile widens. Varric shakes his head, chuckles under his breath. Reaching for the papers, shuffling them together. Putting the neat stack to the side, the cork on the ink well. Stacking them together, pushing them aside, pulling in the mug. The usual stuff, good enough for them, and he drinks long and deeply. After all the years together, he knows her probably better than he knows himself. Her smile falters and he knows she’s not just here to say hello.

She lets go of the mug, reaches out to him, resting her hand over his. “Listen,” and the dread settles in his stomach, “I wanted to talk to you about something. Can we go upstairs?” She never once looks away from him, those clear blue eyes never wavering. He nods, moves to gather up his things. She takes her mug with her. He passes through the doorway, she stands in front of it. A deep breath, and she’s raised the mug to her lips, downing the rest of it. Swiping an arm across her mouth, putting it on his desk.

“What is it?” She closes the door behind her, leans against it. Closing the distance between them, putting a hand on Varric’s shoulder. Bending over and she’s warmer than she has any right to be. Palms against his cheeks, fingers curling against the line of his jaw, and she tastes even sweeter than the ale, more intoxicating, simply better. His hands on her wrists, travelling down her arms, resting at her elbows.

“Hawke –” a whisper as he pulls away.

“I know,” she says as her hands drop to fists, rest on his shoulders, “I know, but it’s okay. You don’t have to love me back.”


	278. Gone (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a friend

There was always a certain measure of glass. He could see out, others could see in, but no one could touch him. Over the years it had been cracked, it had been shaken, but still it stood. He could stand behind it and pretend that nothing he saw, nothing he did affected him. He could crumble, he could fall, but the illusion would stand. She had shattered it with a touch. All the things he never wanted to say out loud, all the things he never wanted to feel – she had gathered them in her hands, broken glass and all.

In his dreams, they lie side by side. Taking a lock of hair between his fingers, tucking it behind her ears. Following the soft curve of her cheek, the sweet swell of her lips. She always watches. She never touches back. That time has passed. He wakes without her, he wakes alone. He craves but finds nothing to match her. Empty, unforgiving, an act without a satisfying end. Things he might have found pleasure in before now only taste like ashes.

He’s building the glass again. Strung together with thorn and barb, ensuring no one can come close enough to touch. He keeps the memory of her with him. Always a thought that lingers, a presence he needs. There are times he forgets, turns to talk to her, and finds only her ghost. Zevran wakes alone. He puts his face in his hands. He never loves again.


	279. Breakfast (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hi, I heard you were taking requests? If you still are, do you think you would be willing to do some Fenris x Hawke? Maybe them on a weekend getaway? the fluff and nice things about being a long term couple? Maybe Fenris cooking for Hawke or something?

There’s sunlight on her arm. A breeze from where the window’s been opened, the gentle sound of curtains moving. For once there is no sound of people, only birds and the rustling of leaves. She murmurs softly in sleeping, her hand on his chest, a leg thrown across his. He lets his free hand rest over hers, his other arm trapped underneath her. Stray wisps of her hair tickle at his cheeks, and there’s a small measure of drool on his shoulder. Breath warm against his skin, and Hawke peacefully dreams.

She’s stolen the blankets during the night, claimed them for herself. He’s only barely covered, the rest bunched at her back and twisted around her leg. His fingers follow the line of her arm, the curve of her shoulder, and he tucks hair behind her ear. His thumb brushes against her cheek, and he shifts to press a kiss to her forehead. He untangles himself slowly, carefully, avoids the floorboard he knows creaks as he stands. Pulling the blanket over her properly, smiling as she turns, her arms reaching for something else to hold.

The pants sag on his hips, a little too large for his frame. Holding them up as he makes his way to the kitchen, stepping over the dog sleeping in the doorway. Barks raises his head as he passes, and happily lopes after him. Fenris gives him an absentminded scratch as he searches through the cupboards, finally finds the proper pan. Finding the matches and lighting the fire of the stove, Barks sitting at attention, eyes on the bacon in Fenris’s hands.

Hawke doesn’t wake softly, but with a groan and a stretch, toes pressing into the mattress and arms stretched above her head. Back arching and limbs shaking, trying to work life back into tired bone. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, crawling out of the bed. The floor creaks under her weight, and she’s rolling her shoulders as she walks. Carried by the smell of food, Barks pouts as she ignores him to press her face against Fenris’s back, arms wrapping around his waist. “Smells so good,” she mumbles into shoulders, closes her eyes and leans against him.

He chuckles softly as he flips the eggs, quickly pats a hand against hers. A break from the city had been Aveline’s idea. She had practically pushed Hawke past city lines, thrown her onto the horse. Fenris makes a note to buy Aveline a gift when they return. “Go sit down,” he tells Hawke, and she obliges. Flopping into the chair, settling an elbow on the table. She’s rubbing at her eyes again, knuckles against her face, the other hand scratching behind the ears of Barks.

Fenris fills their plates, brings it over to her. As he puts it before her, he laughs at the downright moan she gives. “You are the best,” she says, immediately digging in. Stabbing the egg with her fork, shoving it into her mouth. He sits across from her, smiling as he neatly cuts his own food, leans back in the chair. He savors the quiet, the moments spent alone with Hawke. A bump at his leg, and yes, moments spent with Barks as well.


	280. Perfect, Lucky (Isabela x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: if you're still taking requests, how about #4 - “You’re so perfect. And I’m so fucking lucky.” for fem!hawke/isabela

“I got something for you!” Hawke slowly closes the book, settles it on her lap. A hand on the cover and she’s eyeing the still closed front door from where she sits in the study. The voice came from distinctly behind but she knows there’s no entrance that way. Arms wrap around her neck, settle on her shoulders, and a face appears beside hers.

“Did you come through my window again?” Hawke asks her, trying to fight back the smile that curls at the edges of her lips. Isabela hums as she pretends to think, before breaking out into a grin.

“Of course I did tiger, how else would I surprise you?” Instead of taking the time to walk around the couch, she instead climbs over it, settles in beside Hawke. “I missed you,” she says as she leans forward, a hand on Hawke’s cheek, threading through her hair. Holding her tight for the kiss, teeth on her bottom lip, and tongue against tongue. Her kisses are quick, but always manage to leave Hawke breathless.

“Look,” she says as she pulls something out from her back pouch. She dangles the bracelet in front of Hawke’s face – shining gold and emerald. She reaches up, and Isabela drops it into her palm. Hawke’s eyebrows raise.

“Who did you steal this from?”

“Someone who didn’t need it anymore.” Isabela looks so serious in her statement, so earnest, that Hawke can’t help the laughter that bubbles up. Putting on the bracelet, taking Isabela’s face in her hands. Forehead against forehead, still laughing, and Isabela is doing much the same with her hands on Hawke’s shoulders.

“You’re so perfect,” Hawke tells her.

“And I’m so fucking lucky,” Isabela says.


	281. Shield (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Or, if you're feeling more dragon age-y, "is that blood?" "No?" "That's not a question you are supposed to answer with another question" Alistair x Cousland

There are days the shield feels like nothing. An extension of his arm, a limb just like any other. He hates the days were his shield is a weight like no other, a cancer, cracked bone and broken skin. Raising his arm, and metal meets metal, the hammer putting a dent into the shield. The alpha screams behind its helm, eyes ghosted and wet with blood. He pierces with his sword, into the soft flesh between the gaps of its armor. It stumbles back and Alistair surges forward once again, blade striking upwards into its neck. It gurgles, but screams no more.

They stand over fallen genlock and hurlock, ogre and shriek. His arm hands loosely at his side, blood between his fingers. Sheathing the sword, pulling off his own helm. Sweat beading on his brow, hair tousled and messed. They all breathe heavy, take a moment to collect themselves. Morrigan leans against her staff, closes her eyes as she presses her forehead to wood. Zevran folds gracefully to the ground, legs crossed beneath him, head in his hands. Cousland’s knuckles are white around her still drawn sword, eyes wild and staring at the corpse of the emissary at her feet.

Her head turns, looking over the field, to the three of them who wait for her word. “Let’s make camp and rest,” she says. They trudge through wood, stepping over fallen branch and through mud, until they are a distance enough away from the battle. There’s a ringing in his ears, a scream over silence, an ache building in his skull. His arm still bleeds, the pain like a pulse that beats endlessly on, and his hand shakes. He leans against a tree, closes his eyes. Minutes pass like hours, and he winces when someone moves his shield.

“Is that blood?” He opens his eyes to see Cousland with fingertips on his shield, pulling it back to reveal his arm.

“No?” He answers weakly.

“That’s not a question you are supposed to answer with another question,” she says as she works the straps, the shield sinking heavy to the ground. Gently taking off his gauntlet, peeling back the bloodied sleeves. “Morrigan.” She says it just loud enough for the mage to hear, to walk over.

“Tsk. I can do only little,” she says and her touch isn’t as kind as Cousland’s. Wrapping her hand around his wrist, squeezing tight, the magic seeping into his veins. It dulls the pain slightly, stops the bleeding.

“Let’s find some water,” Cousland says, as she helps him take off the rest of his armor. Alistair sits on a rock by the river, as she dips her hands into the water. Cupping it into her hands, letting it run over his outstretched arm. Her hands are soft, kind, moving in slow circles on his skin. Looking up at him from where she kneels, her hand squeezing around his. Lifting it up to her lips, a kiss against his knuckles. She lets her cheek rest against his hand as she smiles, and his heart is a drum against his rib, a sudden red in his cheeks. “Tell me right away if this happens again,” she says, “let me look after you.”

He moves from the rock, kneeling just the same as her, pulls her into his arms. Her hands settle on his back, and he holds her just a little tighter. He had always been pulled this way and that, a tool for someone else’s benefit. She lets him be himself, asks no more or less. “I do love you, you know that right?” He feels her smile against her shoulder, a hand reaching up to thread through his hair.

“I love you too.”


	282. A Blush (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "zevran x warden -- the warden tries to find something to say to make zevran blush (which zevran swears is near impossible)"

He is an unshakeable laugh, the chuckle in a silent room. The whispered voice that encourages vice, hands that beg for touch. He is more than just a smile, that bravado. More than the tattoo on his face, the scars on his back. He reaches out, touches a finger against the earring. She leans into his touch, palm warm against her cheek. It was him who pierced the ear for her, it was him who gave her the earring. Zevran cups her face in his hands, nose brushes against nose, lips press against lips.

Her fingers thread through his hair, undo the ribbon. Loosening the braids, letting it fall free. It brushes against his neck, her hands, frames his face. “You are so beautiful, my Warden,” he murmurs against her mouth. It seems he always has a word ready, resting on that honeyed tongue. She has tried to match him, but words have never been her strength. How many times had she stubbornly attempted to return every compliment, every flirt, every promise whispered in her ear? He dooms her to crimson red, while he only smiles.

She puts her hands on his shoulders, guides him down. Back against ground, and he’s smiling as he watches her move to straddle him. Knees pressed against his sides, holding him tightly, hands pressed against his chest. She leans forward, all her darker locks mixing with his, a shroud around them. “Zevran,” she says, “I love you.”

“Ah, _mi amore_ , I love –”

“Zevran, I love you,” she says again. He blinks up at her, and she’s pleased by his sudden silence. “ _Ar lath ma vhenan_. Zevran. _Me’emma lath, emma sa’lath. Ma vhenan_.” It creeps slowly into his cheeks, burns at the tips of his ears. She cannot see the blush at the back of his neck, cannot feel the twist in his chest. He doesn’t understand the language, but he knows the meaning in the way she says the words. The ragged murmur, the way they’re pulling from her throat, the promise in every syllable. “Zevran.” She kisses his cheek, and then the other, finally capturing his lips with hers.

She leans back, and he crosses his arms over his eyes. “You win, my Warden,” he tells her. Her laughter fills the tent as she rolls onto the ground beside him, and he can feel her pleased smile as she buries her face in the crook of his neck. He tucks hair behind her ear, runs fingertips down her arms, and watches the gooseflesh that rises in his wake. Turning on his side to face her, pulling her into the embrace.  


	283. Always Cared (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Sorry for two in one day, but "I care about you. I've always cared about you." FenHawke fluff because you write it so beautifully? <3"

There’s a ringing in her ears. It might be the sound of panic, sudden loss, and the echo of emptiness. The noise rattles in her skull, pounds against bone, burns against her eyelids. The staff falls from her touch, clatters to the ground, but she’s too busy pressing hands against her temples. Hawke’s vision swims, and her lungs gasp for the air she cannot hold. The Templar draws back his hand, the lyrium boom that sundered all her magic out of existence. He’s marching forward, sword in hand, metal flashing in the sunlight.

His arm around her, moving her behind him as he catches the sword with his own. He holds her tightly, gauntlets squeezing into her skin, uses his body as a shield. Unable to move forward, unable to leave her unprotected, he can only block every blow. It’s Aveline who kills the Templar, crashing into him like a battering ram, sending him over the edge of the Wounded Coast. He screams as he falls into the waves below. “Thank you,” Fenris says and Aveline nods.

“We should go,” she says, her gaze moving from him to Hawke. “As soon as she’s able.” She turns, walks away, and goes to find Varric. Hawke’s teeth are chattering, and she’s trembling like a leaf against him. Hunched over, and she’s still holding her head. Fenris gently pulls her hands away, putting fingers under her chin, guiding her face upwards. She’s past frightened, and he’s never known Hawke to be like this.

“I can’t feel it. My magic, I – it’s not there,” she says. Her eyes shift from side to side, cannot settle. He holds her face in his hands, forces her to look at him and only him.

“Hawke,” and it’s like the sound of his startles her, “it will come back. The silence is temporary.”

“I’ve never been silenced before. It’s like,” she’s gesturing at her chest, pulling her hands, “something’s been ripped away from me.” His hands fall to her shoulders, rest at her arms. Holding her steady while she regains balance, forcing herself to breathe normally. She manages a weak smile, “shouldn’t you be happy it’s gone?” His mouth is a thin line, and he slowly shakes his head.

“Your magic is a part of you.” It was a struggle, at first. Those early days when he first sought her out. When he would linger on his doorstep, knowing he was going to see a mage. Magic’s touch had always been cruel to him, a knife in the back. All his experience with it was twisted, but she – Hawke is Hawke, and he more than accepted her magic because of her. It’s wrapped in the same way the red is wrapped around his wrist, a belonging, a thing that was always meant to be despite all that could go wrong. A care, for someone he never expected.

“I’m sorry Fenris,” she says quietly, “that was unfair of me.”

“It’s fine,” he tells her. She nods as she closes her eyes and he feels a sudden pang of awkwardness. Standing in the sand with his hands around her arms and it’s not quite right. He steps forward, his hands slowly moving to her back, pulling her forward. Her head under his chin, and they slowly sway together. The breeze carries the scent of salt, the mist of ocean water. It comes back not like the breeze but more like the clap thunder, and she goes stiff in his arms as her magic returns.

He can feel it as much as she does, the pins under his skin, the prickling in his markings. He holds her tighter and the prickling turns soothing, not unlike a lovers touch. With that thought, he steps back instantly. He clears his throat, turns his head away from her. “Aveline is expecting us. If you are –”

“Yes,” she says as she moves to collect her staff, “let’s go.” He follows after her, sees the way the back of her neck burns red. He smiles, walks a little faster to be beside her. A glance at her face, cheeks tinted pink, and he knows the care in him, for her, will never fade.


	284. Remember (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "From the drabble list's angst section #7 w/FenHawke please? I love your writing :) “What you did what stupid and dangerous and scared the hell out of me.”"

Snow on stone, a fingertip that draws a line through it. Pausing for a moment, then sweeping his whole hand over it. Cold to the touch, a chill he doesn’t feel, snowflakes that melt on his skin. Pulling back his hand, looking at the barest drops of water in his palm. Snow still falls, flake after flake, and he watches as they land, fade into nothingness. There is no breeze, just the steady fall, the white that muffles. It’s a silence that overpowers, an unbearable stillness, something that keeps him frozen in place.

“I’m still furious with you,” Fenris says, breath fogging, evidence of speech that hangs in the air. He kneels down, on the balls of his feet, and his finger traces the letters carved. “What you did was stupid and dangerous.” Clearing every nook, every twist and curve, cleaning it all. A hand rests on the top of that stone, while the other pulls up the scarf. One she had given him, years and years ago, all frayed edges and faded red. There’s holes forming, but he can’t bear to throw it away, can’t find the courage to fix it.

“You’ve frightened me before. But not like this,” he says. This fear lingers. It trembles in his bones, muddies thought. He closes his eyes, and his head hangs. Snow melts in his hair, white on white, and he is just as still as the rest of it. His hand squeezes the stone, knuckles white and fingers red from the cold. The tree beside it is bare, branches empty, a dark stain upon canvas. Clothed in black as much as he, mourning for what’s been lost.

“I wish you had come home,” he tells her. “I wish you never left.” His hand slips, brushes over the words once again. Here lies his abyss, her gravestone, a burial that didn’t need to be dug, no full coffin to bury. No, she was left somewhere he could not go. “I miss you Hawke.” He stands, presses two fingers to his lips, and leaves his kiss on the stone. He walks back the way he came. Snow covers it once again, hides her name, and it seems he is the only one left who remembers her.


	285. Scared (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “What you did what stupid and dangerous and scared the hell out of me.” For fenhakwe please?

From the moment he opens the door, he knows she’s angry. Now she stands in front of his fire, pressing fingertips to her temple, other hand resting on her hip. Biting her bottom lip as she turns to look where he sits. His hands knit together nervously, squeeze together. Hawke’s anger is always something quiet, carefully curated, but anger is still anger. He’s disappointed her somehow and it’s taking too long to learn that no punishment will follow. No rash of magic, sting of whip. He still fears.

“Fenris,” she says and it’s as though his ribs are bruised, “what you did was so incredibly stupid. And dangerous.” That hand is moving from her temple, rubbing her eye, moving down her face. It takes its place opposite the other, knuckles white as she squeezes into her hips.

“I don’t understand,” he says as he looks up at her. It’s as though she’s unable to find a proper place for them, unable to settle. She crosses her arms, fingers tapping in rhythm, swaying on the balls of her feet.

“You stepped in front of me. You took that blow for me,” she says.

“I was concerned you wouldn’t be able to form the barrier in time,” he tells her.

“Fenris,” the words waver and she’s stepping forward. Closing the distance between them, and kneeling down in front of his chair. She puts a hand on his knee. “I appreciate your concern but you don’t need to protect me like that. I can handle myself.”

“And if you can’t? Am I supposed to just let you get hurt?” It was almost a reflex. She was in danger and he – moved on his own. As though his body did not realize she was not his master, and that he no longer needed to sacrifice himself for another’s sake.

“ _Yes_ ,” she breathes. “It scares me when you do things like that.” She’s reaching upwards, the lightest touch against his cheek. “ _You_ scared me.” For the first time, she doesn’t ask. She simply moves, arms around him, her weight against him, squeezing him into the hug. She takes a shuddering breath, buries her face in the crook of his neck. His hands slowly settle on her back.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. She only holds him tighter.


	286. Who Hurt (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you please do “who hurt you” for fenris and hawke?

There’s a plant beside her papers, ink stains in the grain of the desk. Letters neatly stacked, replies only half-finished. The flowers have yet to bloom, fragile pods with bursts of color trapped inside. It’s a gift he gave her, not knowing what else to give. So there it sits, on that table, in plain view for all to see. Crude carvings etched into the staircase bannister, marks of all the people she’s had in her home. He knows the seventh stair creaks, a weak spot at its center. He knows her room, door slightly ajar, no more need for privacy now that Bodahn had left.

It opens with ease, and flames struggle in the fireplace. Her curtains are closed, her bed unmade. More papers around her nightstand, letters crumpled on the floor. He gathers them up, flattens them, and takes them to the desk. They do not deserve to be so near to where she sleeps. Fenris straightens her bed, opens the curtains. Adding another log to the fire, standing with hands on his hips. The door to the bath is closed and he knows – and yet. Standing outside it, holding his breath to listen. The smallest hiccup, the slightest sniffle. He opens the door carefully.

She’s half submerged in the water, water lapping at the very bottom of her nose. Hair floats around her, vines darkly, and she’s hugging her arms around herself. Feet planted at the bottom, knees that poke out of the water. She looks at him when he enters and he can see eyes red-rimmed, face splotchy. The tears still roll. He kneels beside the tub. “Who hurt you?” He asks. Pushing herself upwards, rubbing at her eyes.

“No one,” she says, “just one of those days.” His fingers curl at her cheeks, wipe away the tears. He cannot stop the frowning concern as her chin shakes, as Hawke bites her bottom lip. Squeezing her eyes closed as though that will stop it, chokes back the sob. He stands only barely, enough to climb into the tub with her. Water spills over the edges, pools on the floor. He doesn’t mind the wet, the cold temperature of it. He reaches for her, pulls her close. Her hands fist in the back of his tunic, she buries her face in his chest.

He doesn’t know what to say but Hawke doesn’t need anything to be said. He holds her tight and that’s enough. She knows everything he means.


	287. Haven't Lost (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "31 from the fluff/ angst list “You haven’t lost me.” for fenhawke?"

It’s such a simple movement, an easy gesture, laughing as she tucks hair behind her ear. It’s her hands. He’s always loved her hands. There’s lighter freckles on the back of them, a darker birthmark by her thumb. Fingers long and delicate, palm warm and soft. He’s always loved her hands, but he loves her touch more. She brushes hair behind her ears, those dark locks that curl at her cheeks, and some soft heat melts in his chest.

She’s reaching for the wine, pouring herself another glass while she speaks. They sit on the bench together, a leg on either side, the glasses and bottle between them. Firelight flickers on her face, highlights the ruby red of her lips, the slightest flush in her cheeks. Their knees practically touch and it’s such an awkward way to sit but they are close, and she is here, and he wants to reach out and take her hand in his. Dangerous thoughts, best left for late nights when he is alone. The longing that never ends, never fades.

“– I thought he was having a stroke, honestly,” she laughs, helplessly shaking with it, and he smiles at her mirth. “So that was my day. How was yours?” He does not touch his glass, but instead wraps his hand around his wrist, around her token. It is never far from him. A poor replacement for her, but a reminder nonetheless.

“I have missed you,” he says and he knows he shouldn’t have drank so much with her. He savors these talks, loses track of glasses in the ease of conversation. A log in the fire snaps, but she pays it no mind, looks only at him.

“I know I do not have the right to say this,” he says and he cannot look her in the eyes, “but I fear – some days I fear I have lost you.”

She reaches out, puts her hands on his face, thumbs brushing over cheekbones. She smiles, but there’s a waver in it, some unspoken break, an ocean reflected in her eyes. “You haven’t lost me,” she says quietly, “Fenris, you could never lose me.” He lets a hand rest over hers, closes his eyes.


	288. Might Know (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drabble for Fenris Appreciation Month

He thinks he might know it in the palm of her hand. It’s in the way she stands as the snow falls, a smile on her face and a halo of light in her hair. Hand outstretched to catch the softly falling flakes, turning to drops of water on warm skin. It falls on her shoulders, like the sprinkle of sugar, and Hawke is turning her face to the sky, squinting in the bright of it. The smallest twitch when the first drop lands on her cheek, but her smile does not falter. Choppy and badly cut bangs move across her forehead as she tilts her head, turns to look at him.

He’s leaning against the pillar, still underneath whatever shelter the lip of the building offers. Raising her eyebrows, that cheeky grin, and she spins slowly in place. He knows it’s an invitation. Putting his hand in hers, and she pulls him forward. He thinks he might know it in the line of her back. It’s in the way they spin slowly in place, the way he can feel the curve of her spine just underneath his hand. Forehead against forehead, and she’s twisting a lock of his hair between her fingers, tucking it behind his ear.

He thinks he might know it in the nape of her neck. It’s in the way she goes still with just a touch, the way she looks at him when he holds her there. Eyes searching his face, and a snowflake lands on the tip of her nose. There it rests for a few precious seconds, before it melts away, reveals the freckle underneath. He thinks he’s found it in the curve of her lips, the way her tongue darts out to wet them before she presses them against his. A fire all her own, a liquid heat that coils in his ribs.

He understands it even as they race back to his mansion, watching the fog of warm breath in cold air. She’s laughing even as she falters on ice, arms waving wildly to catch her balance. Pressing hands to her face as she lies in failure, snow in her hair and on her clothes, face pink not just from winters kiss. Fenris helps her back to her feet, keeps an arm around her waist as they walk the rest of the way. He understands it in the way she stands close to the fire, her arms hugging herself. Seeing only her smile as he wraps the towel around her head, dries her hair.

He knows it in the way she curls close to him, as he pulls the blanket up to cover her shoulder. Legs entwine with legs, her arm thrown across his chest. She buries her head in the crook of his neck, and he can feel her smile against his skin. Slowly rolling to lie on top of him, elbows pressing down into the pillow beside his head. Her fingers play absentmindedly with his hair as she plants a pattern of kisses, from forehead to chin, covers every inch.

His hands rest on her hips, slip underneath her shirt. His thumb moves in circles against her, an affectionate touch, and she lets her full weight rest against him. His hands move upwards, up her back, hold her close. He knows it in the way she closes her eyes, how their breathing matches. He knows it in the calm he feels in her presence, the ease of their silence. It’s home, in the way home is not a place. It’s her, every inch of her, and he is home as long as she is near.


	289. See You (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "fenhawke drabble list 24 - “I thought I’d never see you again.”"

And when was the last? Sitting on his bed, wearing a smile that wasn’t really a smile, tying the red around his wrist. He understands. He knows what he’s done. Running a hand through his hair as he sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The fire has long since died, gone cold, no spark or ember left to speak of. He trudges past as he goes for the bath, folding the token neatly on the counter before dipping his hands into the sink. Gathering water, splashing it on his face. Looking upwards, and the mirror is cracked and broken, missing in places. Only one eye stares back at him, mute and wordless.

He dresses quickly – he has few clothes to choose from anyway – ties the token once again. He finds Sebastian waiting for him in the market, who smiles when he sees him. “He lives!” Sebastian says.

“You asked me to come,” Fenris tells him.

“Yes, and I thought you’d refuse in favor of staying in your mansion,” he says. The only answer he receives is a small grumble, a noise of contention. Sebastian laughs, claps a hand to his back. He’s a familiar sight to the shopkeepers, who greet him by name when he enters. He buys all that he can, and even then, the shopkeepers add more. Every scrap, every piece of flattened bread or ugly fruit, the cake that fell in the middle. Boxed and ready for him, and Fenris helps him carry it all back to the Chantry. Sebastian will be out again that afternoon, distributing it to Kirkwall’s poor.

Freed from this obligation, Fenris wanders Hightown aimlessly. Here he bumps shoulders with nobles and does not apologize. They give him only their sneers so why should he give them his words? Down the steps, and down even more, where Lowtown’s denizens go about their business. Children weave around his legs as they run through the streets, dirt on their faces and scrapes on their knees. He finds himself walking towards the docks, to that nook no one else seems to know about.

The slightest corner, the smallest ledge. He sits quietly, hands folded his lap, lets his legs hang over the edge. Water laps against stone just below him, and seagulls are screaming their song over more violent waves. Ships pass in the harbor, from larger trade vessels to the simplest fisherman, and no one notices him. He looks up when the shadow falls across him. She’s standing there, a hand on the wall and a piece of bread in her mouth. She takes it out of her mouth, presses a fist to her chest as she hastily swallows. “Fen!”

Hawke looks over her shoulder, and there’s a frown on her brow. She hesitates and he’s frankly too startled to speak. She comes to some sort of decision, carefully walks the ledge to sit beside him. Breaking off the unbitten half, passing it to him. “I didn’t think anyone else knew about this,” she says.

“I didn’t either,” he says as he takes it. He pretends not to notice her staring at the token. One of the few times silence has felt so unbearable, so awkward. She’s kicking her legs, folding one over the other, swinging them underneath the dock.

“I – uh – it’s good to see you. I thought you’d never want to see me again. I can – I can leave if you want me to,” she says. She makes some sort of pained expression, so momentary and fleeting, and she’s pressing a hand to her face. When she pulls it away, that expression is gone.

“No,” he says quietly, “you can stay.” And when was the last? Sitting on the docks, eating bread. He thinks each time that she won’t want to see him again. He plays with the edges of the red ribbon, her token, watches the waves with her.


	290. Better off (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: F!hawke/fenris 2&22 angst pls “I think I might be better off without you.” & “Why would you think something like that?”

Hadriana cowers before him, holds out a trembling hand. A meager effort to stop him. He puts a hand on her shoulder as he bends over her, as his markings flare to life. Stretching out his other hand, sinking it into her chest. A bubbling gasp as he holds her still beating heart in the palm of his hand, tips of his gauntlets piercing into it. Hawke’s eyes widen and how could he have ever thought she was Hadriana? Blood on her lips and, “I’m better off without you.”

Fenris falls from the bed, tangled in the sweat-soaked blanket, casting a glow about the room. Gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes closed and it’s as though part of himself is missing. He struggles to pull it back, to regain control. Even as the lyrium slumbers once again, his skin still burns with the ache of it. He lets himself lie down, cheek against the cool stone. Breathing heavily, rolling onto his back. Looking through the fractured roof to the stars above, and they do not bring the comfort they used to.

There’s a guilt in him for the dreaming, the actions some mirrored version of him took. He stands behind her as she speaks, as Hawke negotiates their pay. Not that she needs the coin, not anymore, but ensures everyone gets their fair due. His own fault, for not paying enough attention. She puts her hand his arm and he flinches, shrugs off her touch, steps away in one fleeting moment. She only blinks.

“I’m sorry – I,” he’s trying to find something to say, but she waves her hand, stops him midsentence.

“It’s alright Fenris,” she says, smiling as she holds out the pouch of coin. He takes it carefully, and she is turning away. He knows what lingered in her look. Some uneasy shock, and _haven’t we grown past this_? Something else to be guilty for. He rubs his brow, tucks the coin into the pouch on his belt. She’s sees them all off, walks Fenris to his door.

“Fenris,” and she’s always been able to stop him with a word. They stand on his doorstep, his hand on the knob, and she is reaching out to him. She almost touches him but then her fingers curl, the fist falls back to her side. “Is everything alright?” His throat fills with sand, a sudden panic, and he is not quite sure what to say. All he can do is echo the words that have been on his mind all morning.

“I think you would be better off without me.” He regrets them the moment he says them. She hugs arms around herself, leans her head against the wall. All she can do is look at him, some knot between her brows, lip downturned.

“Why would you say something like that?” It’s barely audible, cracked and broken, fractured on her tongue. Fenris looks away.


	291. To Say (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ""what do you want me to say?" angst prompt -- dorian x lavellan"

He sees him first. What a thing it is to feel, that desperate ache, from just a glance. Swirling in his belly, like bile in his throat, and Maker it’s as though he’s a teenager again, unable to control his emotions. Standing up straight, hands around the railing, watching him as he slowly walks towards his corner of the courtyard. Knuckles white and he can hear his heart beat in his skull, feel every pulse in his veins. He can’t stop himself from walking towards the stairs, to meeting him halfway. Breathless as he sees him, smiles as he descends. “Mahanon,” he says.

Mahanon’s eyes meet his, and some unreadable stitch knits a knot between his brows. “Dorian,” and his voice is liquid, some soothing drink Dorian thinks he might have forgotten in the years he’s been away. Letters haven’t been enough. Words aren’t enough. Hands on his shoulders, his arms, and they find proper footing, melt into each other. Mahanon’s hair over the back of his hands as he holds his face, thumbs tracing the dots just there, over his cheekbones. Following vine and branch, and Mahanon’s hand is a fist in Dorian’s jacket. Nose against nose, lip against lip, and Dorian almost groans from the first taste.

Moving together, to the corner of the landing, just behind the fountain. Privacy enough. He has _missed_ this. He has missed _him_. The Winter Palace pales in comparison to him, all gold and green, perfect and his. He wants to lay him bare, reacquaint himself with every inch, find and feel all the places memory could not hold. Mahanon’s tongue is wet and warm, determined in his mouth, and Dorian’s hands are moving from his face to his shoulders, sliding down his arms. Mahanon pulls away, that line of drool snapping with the distance, puts a hand on his chest. “Not here,” he says, ears flat and eyes searching, “I – I’ve missed you, but not here.”

Agony in the waiting, in being close but not able to touch. Watching as Mahanon moves from person to person, delegate to delegate, until finally. He turns his head, looks up towards that balcony, to him. So much in a single glance. Dorian follows him down twisting hallways and yes, they’ve put the Inquisitor in one of their best rooms. Closing the door behind him and Mahanon surges forward, arms wrapping around Dorian. Burying his head into the crook of his neck, hands trembling at Dorian’s back. Squeezing so tightly, so closely, it’s all Dorian can do to hold him back.

Lifting the elf with ease, hands underneath his thighs, carrying him to the bed. He stands at the edge of it, lets Mahanon fall back. Hair strays around him, his legs still locked around Dorian’s waist. Somehow they’ve gotten him out of his usual leathers, and he’s unbuttoning Mahanon’s suit. Shrugging it off his shoulders, slipping it out from under him. He stops when he sees Mahanon’s arm. The gloves hid some of it, the collar a little more, but like this… green and gold and ruined. Dorian touches it gently, sees the wince of pain in Mahanon’s face.

Kneeling down before the bed as Mahanon sits up, cradles his arm in his lap. Cracked vines, broken veins, like the ash of a forgotten fire. It twists around his arm, curls at his shoulder and neck. Blood slips in the cracks, stains the bandages wrapped around his fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Not a word in any letter. The same platitudes over and over again. He should have realized something was wrong.

“What did you want me to say?” There’s no mirth in Mahanon’s half-laughter. Dorian takes his other hand, lifts it to his lips. Kissing his knuckles, pressing his forehead against it and squeezing his eyes closed. Mahanon leans down, rests his head over his. “I’m sorry _vhenan_ , but there’s nothing you could have done.”

“I could have done _something_ – slowed it somehow, I don’t know, I –” Mahanon straightens himself only slightly, twists his hand from Dorian’s grasp. Fingers at his chin, tilting his head up to look at him. Dorian’s hands move over his thighs, tremble over his hips, and curl at his cheeks.

“It’s going to kill me,” Mahanon tells him.


	292. Worry (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "20. Don't tell me not to worry, because I'm going to do it anyway. (Fenhawk)"

There’s been a change in the days since Vimmark, a restless recklessness that doesn’t sit, rattles her. She strays to the front of battle, fire in her eyes and in her fists, using her staff as more of a weapon than it was meant to be. He knows the feeling. The visceral satisfaction of using your own hands. Taking the pain, putting it in someone else. The others have tried to speak to her about it. She brushes them off, strays from the conversation. “She’ll listen to you,” Aveline tells him but he knows better than to ask.

He looks forward to Thursdays more than any other day. She brings the food. He supplies the wine. A tradition two years in the making, going on three. Fenris doesn’t remember how it started. Legs crossed, they face each other as they sit in front of the fire. She holds the cards close to her face, and he sees her raise her eyebrows as he ponders his turn. He smiles at the way she moves her feet, wiggles her toes, fails at pretending as though she isn’t holding the best hand of her life.

Hawke spreads her cards with a flourish, letting out the laughter of victory. “Congratulations,” he tells her as he passes her the glass of wine they’ve been sharing. Their fingers touch briefly as he takes it from his grasp.

“Why thank you,” she tells him as she takes a sip. Lips curling around the edge of the glass, a smile that refuses to fade. She passes it back to him, and that brief touch once again. His lips touch where hers did, and somehow the wine tastes stronger. Putting it down beside him, watching as she shuffles the cards. She slowly lowers them, that neat stack.

“Can I talk to you about something?” She looks up shyly, as though he would say no.

“Of course,” he says.

“My father was a blood mage.” She rests a finger on the back of the stack. “All those years being taught by him and I never even suspected it once.” A swipe, a card goes to the floor. “It’s burned into my skull – all his warnings about never to turn to blood magic.” A swipe, a card goes to the floor. “He did all of it to protect his family. To protect mom, to protect me.” A swipe, a card goes to the floor. Two taps, a swipe, a card goes to the floor. “Maybe that’s what I should have done,” she says. Finger beside the stack, tipping it softly, watching as the cards splay over out onto the floor.

“You did everything you could,” he tells her quietly.

“Maybe,” she frowns. Fenris reaches out, gathers the cards in his hands. Neatly separating them, a stack in front of her, and a stack in front of him.

“Do you think that his being a blood mage colored what he taught you? A – better warning, perhaps,” he says. He’s taking cards from his stack, adding them to hers.

“I don’t know,” she says as she watches him.

“You have always done everything that was in your power. If there was a better way, you would have found it. Do not doubt yourself,” he says.

“You make it sound so easy,” she smiles. He chuckles softly under his breath.

“I know your life has been difficult. With your family and – I know there are many people that have hurt you. Hawke. I worry that I –” She moves her feet from couch to floor, leans forward, and puts fingertips on his knee.

“I regret a lot of things in my life, Fenris. But the one thing I would never change,” she says, “is you.”  


	293. A Small Punch (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 24!!!!!!!! “Are you SURE I can’t punch him in the face?” “Yes.” “What if I break his nose a little?”

“He closed the door in my face,” she says to him as she walks past, running a hand through her hair. Fenris closes the door behind her, watches as she throws herself into one of the chairs. Hands on the armrest, fingers tapping out some frustrated rhythm. “He’ll barely talk to me anymore.” Her eyes follow him as he takes his place in the chair opposite. “I can just feel he’s up to something that’s going to get him in trouble. Why won’t he let me help him?”

“I don’t know Hawke.”

“Maybe if I punch him in the face a bit, he’ll be more willing to open up to me,” she grumbles. Fenris chuckles under his breath. This is Hawke: concern and anger, cracking jokes to make it not seem quite so bad.

“I doubt that will help.”

“What if I break his nose a little?”

“I doubt that as well,” he tells her. She grunts as her hand moves, covering her mouth. Holding her face in her hand, rubbing a knuckle over her lips. Frowning into the ashes of the fire, the long cold embers.

“I don’t know what he wants from me anymore,” she sighs, “he’s pushing me away at every opportunity. Did I do something wrong? Does he not want to be friends anymore? If he wanted to make me feel like shit, then congratulations, accomplished.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean –”

“It’s not about what he meant,” she says, “it’s about what he did.”


	294. Good (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Fenhawke fluff25 and smut 20 _(:3 」∠)_ “You look really cute in that.” & “I’m going to be late because you can’t keep it in your pants.”"

It’s broken. Such a tiny, useless piece of metal. The watch slips from his wrist, the clasp of it completely snapped. Tossing it onto the bathroom counter, leaning over the sink. Staring into the mirror of himself, running a hand through his hair. He’s always hated formal events. Uncomfortable clothes, forced conversation, begrudging smiles on everyone’s faces. The watch is simply another complication. Sighing as he knocks once on the bedroom door, opening it right after. He stops in the doorway. The only good thing about formal events. Hawke turns, smoothing down her dress.

She’s always been stunning in red. Hugging every curve, every line of her body. Tall but taller in heels, black and pointed. Her lips match her dress, ruby and bright, begging to be kissed. Hair pulled away from her face and she smiles when she sees him. “You’re just in time,” she says as he walks forward, closes the distance between them. She’s holding out a necklace, turning as she pulls her hair from her neck. “Can you help me?” Fenris takes the necklace, feels it rest against her chest as he does the clasp behind her neck.

His hands move from the necklace to her shoulders, down her arms. Stepping forward, pressing a kiss to her bare nape. Wrapping arms around her, palm splayed over her belly, hand on her hip, and she leans against him. “You look good Hawke,” he says in a low voice at her ear, “really _good_.”

“Glad to know I have your approval,” she says as he takes her earlobe between gentle teeth, kissing the line of her neck, biting at a bare shoulder. Hand moving from her belly to her breast, that perfect weight, that infernal bra. The hand on her hip slips lower, finds the hem of her dress. Rolling it up with careful fingertips, and Hawke bites her bottom lip. A touch to her thigh, skin against skin, and he holds her tight in his grasp. “We’re going to be late.” A murmur, a statement that means nothing.

“Then we’ll be late,” he tells her. She can feel the erection straining in his pants, pressing against her back. He finds the line of her underwear at her thigh, follows it to promised treasure. Slipping fingertips inside that cotton, and Hawke’s hand rests on his wrist. An encouragement as his hands dip lower, those soft curls, and when she groans he knows he’s found his mark. The pressure he knows she likes on her clit, in a way that makes her legs shake.

“Fen,” and he loves it when she says his name like that, a rumble in her throat, honey on her tongue. Closing his eyes as he keeps his mouth pressed to her shoulder, the arm across her chest holding her steady, the other keeping her off-balance. Running fingers along wet folds, teasing the entrance of her. Circling, ceaseless, and back to her clit, spelling out her name with his fingertip. Back again, and she’s breathing hard now, her own eyes closed and he doesn’t need to see her face to know it’s flushed. He can feel the heat that spreads through her body, teased forth by his touch.

She grinds subtly backwards, right against him, and yes, he gets the hint. Slowly sliding his fingers out, and back inside, curling to hit the spot that makes her bend forward. His palm presses against her clit as he fucks her with her fingers, listening to her low mewls of pleasure, the soft inhale, the heavy exhale. “The desk,” she says. Mourning the loss of him only briefly as he turns her to face him, guides her backwards as he kisses her. Tongue against tongue, and she’ll be needing to redo her lipstick when he’s done.

The slightest lift to sit her on the desk, fingers pulling at her underwear. They hang off an ankle as her hands move between them, find the buckle of his belt. Pulling it apart quickly, and he loves the way she groans into his mouth, the button and the zipper, pulling him free and wrapping a hand around the base of his cock. He’s already dripping with the want of her, and her thumb smears the precum around the head of him. Stroking in a way that makes him weak, holding her face in his hands as he desperately takes every last breath from her.

She slides forward, a hand on the desk, the other guiding him towards her slick cunt. Rubbing against her for a few frustrating moments, and his breathing stutters when he presses inside of her. She’s desperately holding onto the kiss, as her arm wraps around his neck, hand tight on his shoulder. Palm splaying against her lower back, the other squeezing her hip, her legs wrapped around his waist. “Good,” he says as his forehead presses against hers, “so good.” Her legs tighten against him as he finds the right rhythm, his hips bucking against hers.

He has to move a hand to the table to keep himself steady, lost in the warm wet of her. The necklace subtly moves with each hard thrust, and she groans each time he buries himself to the hilt. Her eyes open only briefly, half-lidded and full of want, darkly blue pools of desire. Licking her lips, and her lipstick is smeared and he loves that it is, that it’s because of him, and he can’t stop himself from kissing her again. Her heel presses against his ass, a silent but greedy plea of more.

Her head tips back, exposing her throat as they fuck, both hands slamming onto the table. He steadies himself, holding her hips tightly, and that dress is pushed up so far and her hair is coming loose and – her cunt is squeezing tight around his cock, wave after wave, and the moan is strangled, tinged with something more, and a shoe slips off her foot. Landing on the ground just as he loses as much as she does, cock pumping the last drops of his cum inside of her.

Looking at him with a smile, reaching out to wipe the lipstick off his lips. “Now we’re really going to be late,” she tells him.

“Mhmm,” he says as he gathers her up in his arms, buries his face in the crook of her neck. He hates formal events. He hates the clothes, the conversation, and the smiles. Hawke threads a hand through his hair, leans her head against his. The only good thing about formal events. Hawke’s clothes, her every word, smiles without exception.


	295. Breath (Cullen x F!Inquisitor) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: hi, hello, i love you. my prompt is "please write some of That Good Shit."

He knows what’s waiting. Even as he’s giving out the last order, listening to the final report, his mind is elsewhere. It’s already with her, up that ladder, underneath the stars. Cullen nearly crumples with relief when the last soldier leaves, when the door closes. Locking every bolt tightly, making sure they won’t be disturbed. He clears his throat, puts his hands on the rung of the ladder. A deep breath, and he makes his way upwards. Finally at the top and she’s lying in his bed, wrapped up in furs. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she says as she pulls the furs back. The breath of him quickly leaves.

She’s lying on her side, smiling in a way that tells him she knows exactly what it’s doing to him. His eyes move over the curve of her, the way one leg drapes over the other, the swell of her hips, breasts perfect and free. Her skin shines in the moonlight, her hair curls around her neck. “Maker’s breath,” he says weakly. She extends an arm, holds out a hand to him.

“Cullen,” she says, an invitation. He’s quickly shrugging off his cloak, tearing at his breastplate, struggling with the boots as he hops forward to take her hand. He half tumbles into the bed and her laughter is clear as she wraps her arms around him. Finding the hem of his shirt, helping him take it off as she pretends not to notice the red coloring his cheeks. Threading a hand through his hair, softly smiling as she pinches his earlobe. Leaning forward, letting his forehead rest against hers.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he tells her, “it was – _agony_ – waiting.”

“I’m glad you feel the same way,” she says as she licks her lips, “I’ve… kept myself busy.” A flush in her cheeks that swirls in her chest, nipples pointed, legs that rub together. He surges forward, a clumsy kiss, lips hard pressed against hers. Both pairs of hands at the waist of his trousers, pulling them off with a desperate need. Moving to position himself better on the bed, on his knees, resting between her legs. She’s leaning back in the bed, hands curling by her face, surrounded by pillows and fur. She’s utterly gorgeous. He loses himself a little, in the sight of her.

“Cullen,” and he’s snapping back to reality, “Please, I can’t wait anymore.” His hands tighten at her hips, drag her forward. He knows how she feels. He’s been half hard since she disappeared up the ladder with a wink and a promise. He wets the underside of his cock with her wet, slowly grinding against her, and he loves the way she watches. Hands shaking in fists, curled into the furs, biting her bottom lip as she watches him slide over her cunt. “ _Cullen_.”

Her feet press into the bed, toes curling as he shifts the angle, the tip of him pressing at her entrance. Slowly burying himself to the hilt, inch by desperate inch, groaning when he can go no further. Her cunt throbs around him, warm and wet, dripping with want. Her back arches, her eyes squeezing closed. Unable to bite her lip any longer as she gasps, a ragged thing, as he moves his hips back, only to bury inside her once again. “Please, please, please,” she’s begging, a steady stream wrapped around a moan, and he watches her breasts shake as he thrusts inside her.

Hips slap against hip, and her thighs press tightly against him as she holds herself at that angle. Her head tilts to the side, and he’s able to see the way the tips of her ears burn red. Cullen leans forward, a hand pressing into the bed beside her head, the other still wrapped underneath her. “I love you,” he breathes, a strangled gasp, and she’s turning her head to look at him. Hands that reach upwards, thumbs over cheekbones, lifting herself up and pulling him down, meeting in the middle for the kiss.

She turns deftly, swiftly, raising her ass towards him, bending down with a pillow beneath her. It takes little to pick up where they left off, Cullen straightening as he takes hold of her hips once again, plunges inside her. He loves the arch of her back, that pattern of freckles on her left shoulder. Running a hand along her spine, over every bump and bone, tracing shoulder blades and over ribs. She’s biting into the pillow – he really needs to get that hole in the roof fixed – stifling the moans. She pitches her hips back, impatient with want, and he leans back as she replaces his rhythm with hers.

Fucking herself on his cock, feeling his hands on her and she slowly raises herself upwards. Breasts sway underneath her, hair caught around her face. Cullen’s hands at her hips again, holding tightly as they rut against each other. Focusing on nothing else but him, the feel of him inside her, his touch, the hitch of his breath, and he makes it so easy to cum. He struggles to hold on as the waves of her pleasure rock through him, cunt squeezing around his cock unbearably. He slips from her just in time, seed spilling hot onto her back.

They collapse onto the bed together, and he is running a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. Moving forward to pepper her shoulder with kisses, her cheek, her forehead. “Maker’s breath, that was –” he exhales deeply and she’s taken by peals of laughter.


	296. To Touch (Alistair x F!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "You're so much fun to touch for Warden x Alistair ❤️ 

Sharing the tent was a practical decision, of course. It was simply easiest to only set up one instead of two, in much closer range to protect each other if needed. A practical decision. The goosebumps follow his fingertips, as he traces her arm, over her shoulder, cupping her face in his hands. Leaning down to kiss her softly, her hands twisted in that old tunic of his. Alistair kisses the line of her jaw, the goblet of her throat, that space between her breasts. His hands run from the curve of her hips to her ribs, back down again. “You’re so much fun to touch,” he murmurs against her.

That muddy red in her cheeks as he grins against her belly. Stubble on his face, that light scratching against her skin as he moves ever downwards, her legs moving over his shoulders. He loves her thighs, and he loves the way kissing them makes her squirm. Crossing arms over her face, but he can still see the way she bites her lip. The smallest bite, the lightest kiss, and he can see the way her breathing quickens, the rise and fall of her chest.

That gasp. He savors that gasp. The one that comes when he kisses the nub of her clit, brushes his tongue against it. Holding tightly to her hips as her legs shake, and he continues kissing it again and again. Pressing his mouth against, that ever circling tongue, dangerous pressure followed by gentle sucking in the way that makes her sharply inhale, her back arch, hands slapping down the blankets beneath, curling into fists. She’s struggling to contain her voice – and he knows.

Moving his hand, a twitch of her hips when she feels his fingers trace through wet folds. “You are a merciless tease,” and the growl turns into a groan as his laughter rumbles against her cunt. A finger, just there, pressing at her entrance – but not inside, not yet. It’s his tongue that tastes that pleasure first. Slipping inside her as much as he can, lapping at the wet he finds, eats at her like a starving man. And starving he is, with want of her.

Sloppy with him, wet all her own, moving back to her clit as he presses his finger inside. A steady rhythm, and her hips buck against his mouth. He accepts all of her, the steady roll, and the way her hand finds his head. Tight against him, pushing him more against her cunt, pulling at his hair and Maker – her head tilts to the side, eyes squeezing closed. If she were to look, just there, she would see him watching her, eyes half-lidded with lust, reading every expression, twitch of her body.

But he doesn’t need to look. Not when he can feel. The way she tightens, twists, toes curling into the furs. Her thighs squeeze around his head and he keeps the rhythm steady, rides out her orgasm. That hand in his hair shakes, and the moan slips out of her lips. She falls back into the pillows gasping for breath as he slowly rises, wiping the wet from his face with the back of his arm. “Am I still a merciless tease?” He asks her. It earns him a playful punch in the arm.

“Yes,” she says even as she pulls him to her, tastes herself on his tongue.


	297. Cooking (Fenris x M!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 23 for the angst/fluff prompts, pairing of your choice ♥ “What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”

“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?” He rolls his eyes at the snap of the fingers, throws the spatula down.

“For the thousandth time Hawke – what are you wearing,” it comes deadpan out of Fenris’s mouth, staring at the hat on Hawke’s head.

“It’s for Christmas!” It’s an abomination. Lights that flicker on and off, brightly glowing flickers of red and green, stuck with fluff and little candy cane ornaments. “What do you think?” Hawke waggles his eyebrows at him as he saunters forward, reaching out and holding onto Fenris’s hips. Fenris covers his mouth with his hand, resting his head on Hawke’s shoulder as he shakes helplessly with laughter.

“It’s the second most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen,” he tells him.

“And the first?” Hawke asks.

“You.” Hawke fakes a pained sound, gently pulls Fenris’s hand away from his mouth.

“Have I ever told you how much I love your laugh?”

“Too many times,” Fenris says as Hawke cups his face in his hands, thumbs brushing over cheekbones, touching the line of his jaw.

“Well I’m saying it again,” he says as Fenris wraps his hands around Hawke’s wrists, tilts his face upwards, “I love your laugh.” Mumbles against his mouth, lost in the kiss, and he can feel Fenris’s smile in it. With one eye cracked open, Hawke reaches behind him, turns off the stove. Hand to Fenris’s hip, slowly moving him over so that he’s leaning against the counter. In the position he wants, Hawke instantly drops to his knees.

“Hawke what are you –” “

Kissing the cook.” Fenris leans back, hands curling around the edge of the counter, watching as Hawke begins to unbuckle his pants. Reaching out, running a hand through Hawke’s messy raven hair, and even lower to tug at a bit of his beard. “Ouch.” Hawke rubs his cheek as Fenris chuckles, lets his hand move back to the counter. “I love your laugh. I love it so much.” Wrapping a hand around Fenris’s cock, sentence mumbling into nothing as Hawke runs his tongue from base to tip.

Hands tighten around the counter as Hawke teases him with his tongue, his hand slowly stroking him. Hawke isn’t shy, looking up with a smile, and to see those eyes – Fenris flushes as he tilts his head back, focuses on the feeling of Hawke’s mouth. Lapping at the small drops of pre-cum, before swallowing him whole. Warm and wet, tongue swirling around the head of his cock. Hawke hums, throat rumbling, and Fenris can’t help the buck of his hips when he feels it. Mouth opening as his hand turns once again in Hawke’s hair, while Hawke’s other hand holds his hip.

Bobbing his head up and down, happy to put his mouth in service to him. Fenris’s hips roll steadily now, his hand shaking in his hair. Hawke swirls his tongue around his cock, groans at the salt on his tongue, and Fenris shudders at the feeling. He can taste the tension, the nearing of it, doesn’t need Fenris’s warning, the low and husky murmur of, “Hawke.” Keeping his hand pressed against his belly, the other hand holds his hips steady as Hawke keeps his mouth wrapped around him. He swallows all he has to give, rises with a smirk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Kiss time!” Fenris is laughing as he pushes at Hawke’s chest, trying to evade the man’s overly exaggerated kisses.


	298. Yellow Leaf (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "Fenhawke “ all you wanted was a happiness that didn’t taste of blood. ” 

In the fall of the first year he meets her, she plucks a leaf out of the air. Gently reaching up, catching it at the stem as it falls. Brushing hair back behind her ear as she looks at it, colored gently yellow, and she smiles. Looking over her shoulder, finding him. Reaching back, and Fenris instinctively reaches forward. She gives him the leaf, keeps walking. He holds it in his hand, unsure of what he’s supposed to do with it. Hawke catches another, gives it to Isabela. Isabela throws it back into the air, and they both laugh. In the fall of the first year he meets her, she gives him a yellow leaf.

In the summer of the sixth year he knows her, she brushes her hand over the backs of dusty tomes. Finger against old spines, trying to find something interesting. The shelves have been untouched, books unread. Fenris is sitting at the desk with a quill in his hand, stubbornly writing the words she’s given him. Hawke stops at one, in less disrepair than the rest. Pulling it from the shelf, a splendor of red and gold. Opening it up, flipping through the pages, and a sudden splash of color stops her. A single yellow leaf, pressed between the pages. She smiles when she finds it, closes the book and places it back upon the shelf.

In the spring of the thirteenth year he loves her, she’s sitting on the steps of the market. That bridge between high and low, and she rests her head against the pillar. Hawke turns a coin between her hands, presses it against her palm, and closes it in a fist. Hair curls against her cheek, and those who pass pay her no mind. They ignore her as much as they ignore the rubble strewn in the streets. Fenris finds her there, puts a hand on her knee. “Don’t go,” he tells her. She smiles, puts her hand over his. In the spring of the thirteenth year he loves her, she joins the Inquisition.

In the winter of the first year he loses her, he pushes open the door to the mansion. Somehow it has still not yet managed to fall. She’s left him the estate. He can’t live there, not without her. His footsteps leave impressions in the dust, and he draws a line on the banister as he walks up the stairs. Fenris pulls a book from the shelf, sits on the musty bed, moldy blankets. Red and gold, it creaks when he opens it. Page after page until he finds it. In the winter of the first year he loses her, a yellow leaf crumbles at his touch.


	299. A Name (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "10 " I like it when you say my name like that""

His arm is underneath her neck, wrapped around her, fingertips at her shoulder. The other rests over her easily, holding her tightly. A kiss to the nape of her neck, across her shoulder. The sheer curtains flutter from the open window, birds resting on the roof across. Chirping their song as Hawke shifts in his arms, moving to tangle their legs even more hopelessly. The lightest touch of her fingers against the back of his hand, shifting, turning, moving to face him. Trying to find sense in a mess of limbs, until finally she is half beneath him, reaching up to tuck hair behind his ear.

His elbow presses into the pillow beside her head, one of his legs trapped between hers. Brushing a thumb across cheekbones, continuing to trace a comforting circle against her skin. He leans down, presses a kiss to her forehead. “Fenris,” she says, and he’ll never tire of hearing that sound. The way she says it. As though it is the lightest sugar on her tongue, the sweetest pastry, a story with no end. His nose brushes against hers, closing their eyes together. “Fenris.” A softer sigh as her hand threads through his hair.

Whatever he had imagined his life looking like before, he doubt he could have imagined this. Her hand fluttering on his shoulder, a smile on her lips. Resting his weight against her as she holds him closer, kisses his cheek. His mind is silence when he is with her, his markings calm, some peaceful beat of his heart. “Fenris, I love you,” she tells him and her lips are soft and warm against his, tasting like strawberries. Content to let the day slip away, peace to be beside her.


	300. First (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "68. Prompt list. FemHawke & Fenris "A Hoarse Whisper “Kiss Me”""

She crosses her arms as she looks up at the broken chandelier, tethered by a worn chain. The stair railing is broken, the banister cracked. There are cobwebs in every corner, rats scurrying across the mantle of the fireplace. “Congratulations, you have purchased dust,” he tells her in a deadpan voice, with an equally unimpressed expression. Hawke snorts brief laughter, shakes her head.

“It’s in no worse shape than your mansion,” she tells him, “at least I’m actually going to clean.”

“Then why am I here?” Fenris asks. She looks over her shoulder at him as she smiles. The windows are dirty but light still shines through, highlights the dust hanging. Untouched air, unlived space, a home that has been neglected for too long. A shield emblazoned with the Amell crest sits in the fireplace, atop ash and cold ember, half scorched. Touching the frame of the entrance into the study, feeling cut and crack underneath her fingers.

Musty blankets over moldy furniture, another room that’s not seen life in so long. Running her hand over the mantle, wiping away the dust onto her pants. Fenris follows her silently, watching her every step make impressions in the dirt beneath their feet. She had appeared at his door, breathless and smiling, the deed in her hand. Freshly bought, newly hers. She had asked him to come with her, taken him by the hand. The deed now sits in the front hallway, and her hands are occupied with the touching of books on a large shelf.

He smiles as he watches her sputter, pull the dust from her tongue as she puts the book back. She turns, meaning to walk away, heard the splinter too late. A weight that finally has meaning, the last straw that breaks the feet of the shelf. Fenris surges forward, his arms outstretched, even as she’s reaching to catch the bookcase falling towards her. Landing heavy on his back, into her palms, and they are pressed tightly together as books fall like rain around them. Their faces close together, chest against chest, and together they push the bookcase back against the wall.

Fenris leans against it, his hands holding shelves. Hawke is doing the same, her hands so close to his head, books and scattered pages at their feet. A dust cloud that swirls, finding a place to settle, and Hawke shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “See, this is why I brought you. To protect me from all the evil furniture,” she says. He chuckles under his breath, can’t stop the smile. She’s smiling as well, but it’s not because of the joke. A reaction to his, something softer, a pink tint in her cheeks. Another shift, her knuckles white as they hold the shelf.

One hand letting go, plucking a fluff from his hair, throwing it to the ground. While she is looking elsewhere, he is looking at her. The pooling blue of her eyes, an ocean the likes of which he’s never seen. The freckles like stars against a porcelain sky, the raven-hair that curls at her cheeks, crosses her forehead. Lips deeply red, pomegranate and ruby, and he wonders what it would be like to kiss Hawke. Not that he hadn’t wondered before. He clears his throat at the thought, and Hawke’s hand rests on his shoulder.

“Fenris,” she says cautiously, and her hand is moving, at his neck, fingers playing with the soft wisps of hair at his nape, “I did want you to see it first. Before anyone else. I wanted you –” the words quiet into nothingness as his nose brushes against hers. Eyes half closed, and he thinks he can hear his heart beat in his skull, a hand resting on her hip. “Are you sure?” Mumbled against his mouth, and he thinks he could not love her more.

“Kiss me,” he whispers hoarsely. Raising on her tiptoes just slightly, pressing against him, with that hand in his hair and the other brushing against his cheek. Her touch is warm, caring, and his hand splays against her back. She licks her lips, just barely, the fleeting tongue. Somehow her kiss is even warmer than her touch, some careful kindness, lips pressing against his. Moving back down, flat on her feet, and they both look at each other for a moment. It’s Fenris who moves first, leaning down to kiss her again.  


	301. Blankets (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "maybe an anders x hawke (of your choice) -- "well someone likes to steal the blankets at night!""

She finds him with a candle burning, hunched over the desk, quill in his hand. He doesn’t hear the sound of her, bare feet against cold floor, but he does feel her hands in his hair. Standing behind him as she brushes it behind his ears, away from his face, gathers it up in her hands. Bending over to kiss him on the crown of his head as he puts down the quill. “I’m sorry love,” he says as he shifts in the seat to look over his shoulder, and the locks of hair slip from her fingers, “did I wake you?” She smiles slightly, hands cupping his face, moving to tug at the blanket over his shoulders.

“No, you were very quiet. The empty bed woke me,” she says, “and the missing blanket.”

“Mhmm, I stole it,” he says as he stands, hands drifting over her arms, gooseflesh appearing in their wake. She finds the hem of his tunic, slipping cold hands underneath, splaying them against the small of his back. Looking up at him so brightly, so warmly, and she smiles. He mimics what she had done earlier, hands in her hair, twisting stray locks between his fingers.

“Are you going to be up much longer?” She asks quietly. That candle in the darkness, flickering against her cheek, bright in the blue of her eyes. Shifting with the rise and fall of gentle breathing, and his fingers curl against her cheek. She leans into his touch, closes her eyes.

“No,” he says softly, “let’s go to bed.” She smiles, shifts, kisses the palm of his hand.


	302. Not Now (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "No I don't want to say goodbye. Not now."

From Deep Roads to cobblestone, Ostagar to Arishok, she wonders how she always seems to find herself in these situations. She slides backwards, struggling to stop the attack. Metal against wood, sword against staff, and she can see it beginning to crack, splinter. Meredith is grinning, bloodshot eyes and something darker, screams as she pushes harder. Hawke moves swiftly, and the sword breaks the stone where she once stood. “Face me Champion!” Meredith whirls, the veins of her sickened with tainted lyrium.

Focus fractured as much as her staff, Hawke waves her hand but the force-push is weak, barely moves her. Out of the corner of her eye she sees it, hears it spinning, the macabre statue bearing down towards her. Hawke sprints out of its way, into Meredith’s grasp, blocking blow after blow until the staff finally cleaves in two. Searching for the magic, finding it wanting. There isn’t much left. The others are faltering under the assault of the statues, the twisted others. End Meredith, end it all.

Some cruel joke, grim laughter. Meredith slices through her in the same place the Arishok once did, that broken middle, slides the sword through. “You have failed, Champion. No more will Kirkwall be held under your evil, abomination!” It’s different this time. Before, she was warm, so warm. A feverish heat, a desperate grab. Now she is cold, calm, raises her hands to Meredith’s face. The lightning burns through fingertips, sputters over flesh, screams its way inside of the Former Knight-Commander. The lyrium sword shatters as Hawke stumbles back, as Meredith falls to her knees – a smoking ruin.

The statue falls, back to lifeless metal it once was. There’s sweat on his brow, wisps of hair stuck to his forehead. Breathing heavily as he eases his stance, lets his sword fall to the ground beside him. Tilting his head skyward, giving a glance to the stars that blink above. Closing his eyes as he breathes deeply, finds his center. Instantly turning, looking for Hawke. She’s still standing, blood pouring through her fingers. The panic strangles him, hands around his throat, some ragged cry escaping as he runs to her. He catches her as she falls.

“No, no, no, Hawke, look at me, Hawke,” a hand wrapped around her, a hand over hers. Moving to her face, leaving bloody fingerprints on her cheek. “Hawke, please, no, no, no, Hawke, please.” The words fall hoarse from his mouth, smooths her hair away from her face. Her mouth is opening, as though she means to say something. Raising her hand, resting it on Fenris’s shoulder. The softest pull and he instantly bends, his face close to hers, tear drops falling on her cheek. “No, no, no.” Not now. Not when they – not when he had just gotten her back.

“Please don’t go, please don’t leave me, Hawke, _Marian_ ,” the whispers are barely audible as his forehead presses against hers, as he holds her tightly, rocks back and forth. “Marian, please, please, please, please, please.” Raising his head, looking over at the others.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” He screams at them, “Do something!” Aveline looks almost guilty. Isabela turns away. Merrill has her hands pressed against her mouth. Sebastian is murmuring prayer. Anders has his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. Varric can only stand and watch. Fenris turns back to her when he feels her hand move. Trembling as she reaches for his face, swipes a bloody thumb across his lips. He catches her hand as it falls.

“Marian?”  


	303. Waited (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Angst/fluff Prompt List for m!hawke and Fenris: # 58 “I’ve waited for this moment for a long time.”

Wind over the long grass, sand rolling between the blades. Waves wash up on the beach, pull a little more of the earth with it into the depths. A mirror darkly, the water reflects the moon and stars above. Fenris crosses his arms, stray strands of hair moving over his forehead, gooseflesh on exposed skin. There are gulls circling in the distance, heading to shelter for the night. Hawke is easy to hear, heavier footsteps through the brush, sinking into sand, moving to stand beside him. Hawke breathes in deeply, eyes closing. The scent of salt, brisk air, something softer underneath.

Opening his eyes again as he turns to look at Fenris, and there’s a blanket in his arms. “I thought you might be cold,” he says, glancing over the way Fenris is holding himself, the chill he can’t hide. Hawke holds out the blanket, and in one swift movement, wraps it around Fenris’s shoulders. Both hands on either side, pulling it tightly closed, and Fenris looks away. Toes digging into the sand, and Hawke’s hands gently rubbing his arms, putting the warmth back inside him.

“Thank you,” he says quietly as he takes over holding the blanket, hands wrapped up in it. Hawke smiles, turns back towards the Waking Sea.

“You asked me once if I would ever go back to Ferelden,” Hawke says. Somewhere, past all of that water, is Lothering. They stand nearly shoulder to shoulder, watching wave after wave together. “At the time, I thought I might go back. Now, I don’t think I could.” Fenris’s gaze shifts, face tilts towards him. Hawke is rubbing a hand over his chin, scratching at his beard. There’s something in him that Fenris recognizes. A longing for something they both can’t remember anymore. Hawke’s hand drops back to his side.

Looking at Fenris, relieved when the elf doesn’t drop his gaze. “My home is here now,” he tells him. For some reason he doesn’t know, part of him expects the words ‘with you’ to follow. The long talks late into the night, the days spent in each other’s company, the years taken to get to know each other. The careful words, the cautious flirtations. Fenris tells himself he shouldn’t expect anymore but Hawke is smiling, reaching out, and the barest brush of fingers against his cheek.

Fenris allows himself to lean into the touch. Untangling from that nest of blankets, fingertips light against the back of Hawke’s hand. Hawke holds a lock of hair between his fingers, a silver slash, and watches as strand after strand slowly falls from his grasp. “I know we’ve – I like you Fenris. I don’t expect anything, I just –” Hawke sighs. “I just wanted you to know.”

“You sound as though you don’t already know how I feel about you,” Fenris says. To his credit, Hawke’s cheeks color and he laughs bashfully.

“I didn’t want to presume anything.” Hawke is turning, facing him properly, his other hand resting on Fenris’s shoulder. “Can I kiss you?” Their other hands are tangled together, falling between them, and Fenris raises himself on his toes slightly. Closing his eyes, tilting his head, nose brushing against nose. Hawke seizes the invitation, presses his lips against his. Hawke is oak and ash, but there’s something sweeter underneath, a little more fragile, slightly brittle. They break apart, that sand underfoot, and for some reason Fenris thought it might hurt. Instead they’re smiling, grinning like idiots at each other.

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wanted to kiss you for a very long time,” Hawke tells him.


	304. Sleep (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: "and (if you may indulge me in a second one) #17 “I can’t sleep, can I stay here?” Thank you! :)"

He’s not quite sure what he expects when he hears the knock at his door. Always a light sleeper, it wakes him easily. Moonlight shines through the holes in his roof, stars blinking overhead. His footsteps are light down the stairs, hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword. Opening the door slowly, letting go of the sword. Hawke, head lowered and hands on the doorframe, some dark cloud hanging on his brow. “I’m sorry, I know it’s late,” he says softly.

“Is something wrong?” Fenris asks. A hand shifting from the doorframe, squeezing at the bridge of his nose, other arm wrapping around himself. Hawke sighs as his hand moves over his face. There are dark circles under his eyes, some dull glass to the usually bright blue.

“I can’t sleep. Can I stay here?” Fenris steps back without a word, holds open the door wider. Hawke is slow to step forward, and Fenris closes the door behind him.

“I can sleep on the couch.”

“You are – you won’t fit, Hawke. You can take the bed.”

“I’m not robbing you of your own bed,” Hawke tells him. Fenris puts a hand on his arm and whatever other protest Hawke had ready, the words die in his mouth. They move up the stairs together, and Fenris kneels down by the fire. Adding more logs, stoking the flames. They burn brightly once again, and the bed sinks underneath Hawke’s weight as he sits. Fenris stands before him, hands behind his back, fingers absentmindedly playing with the stray threads of the red wrapped around his wrist.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” He asks. Kneeling down before him as much as he did the fire, looking for the flames to stoke. He finds Hawke cold, a little empty, his hands on his knees, knuckles white as fingertips bruise into his flesh.

“A silly nightmare,” Hawke mumbles, “that’s all.”

“Hawke,” is all Fenris says. Something light, low in his voice, and Hawke shakes his head, forces the smile.

“I’ll be fine. I just didn’t want to be in that house,” Hawke says. Fenris studies him for a few quiet moments, before nodding.

“Stay as long as you like,” Fenris tells him. Rising to his feet, taking the extra blanket with him. Curling up on the couch, knees at his chest, blanket over his shoulders. Hawke is slower to lie down, staring through the cracks. Firelight flickering on his face, and Hawke sighs before he finally closes his eyes. Fenris blinks, listening to the fire crack, wood splinter, ashes fall. Hawke falls asleep quickly, and the dreams come even quicker.

The stone is cold against Fenris’s bare feet. Making his way across the room, slipping into the bed beside him. An arm thrown across him, burying his face into the crook of Hawke’s neck. Listening as the mumbling slowly stops, his breathing eases, restless limbs finally relaxing. A hand on Hawke’s chest, over his heart, feeling as it beats back to normality. Only then does Fenris close his eyes, allows himself to fall asleep.

Hawke wakes to silver hair caught in his mouth, a leg that has yet to wake. Fenris has his legs tangled up in his, head on his chest, mouth slightly open. Hawke chuckles under his breath, stops as soon as he sees the twitch of Fenris’s ears. He lets himself wrap arms around him, savor the closeness, knowing that once he wakes, it will be the same as it has been since that night. A little more somber, no less loving, Hawke closes his eyes.


	305. A Hand (Alistair x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: t h i r t y e i g h t “Take my hand.” “Why?” “I’m trying to ask you to marry me, so take my damn hand!”

“We can position the ballistae here. I think the alienage will trust the Dalish more than any group, so let’s have them here. I want the dwarves in the middle of the city, to hold this position – Alistair, are you listening?” She’s leaning over the map, hair braided over her shoulder. Stray wisps curl at her cheek, and she brushes them behind her ear. Crossing her arms as she smiles, leans a hip against the table. “You aren’t listening.”

“I am,” he insists as he closes the distance between them, puts a hand on her other hip, “dwarves in the middle of the city and all that.” She hums concession, reaches up to scratch lightly underneath his chin. They’ve spoken little of it. What comes after. He’s to be a King, or a Grey Warden? Truthfully, it doesn’t matter to him. Only one thing does. Now is as good a time as ever. He clumsily drops to one knee, holds out a hand towards her. She takes a suspicious step back, curls her fists against her chest.

“Take my hand,” he says.

“Why?” She asks it slowly. He’s waving his hand at her expectantly and impatiently, taking her arm in his other hand, slapping her hand down against his. She snatches it back just as quickly.

“I’m trying to ask you to marry me, so take my damn hand!” Her eyes widen, her arms shoots forward, her hand firmly in his. He laughs as he bends forward, pressing his forehead against the back of her hand. Kissing it briefly, smiling as he looks up at her.

“I’ve known,” he says, “from the moment we met. You would always be my only love.”


	306. Blight (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: #4 zev warden bb "OC forced to kill their LI."

She keeps the scarf wrapped around her face. They pass through cities unnoticed, venture deeper into the desert. Even with no others around to see it, she keeps it hidden. Those sickly veins that curl around her neck, the dull gray of her eye. They follow legend, whisper, myth and decaying scroll, to a cure that may not even exist. The sun beats down unbearably, and his feet drag as he walks behind her. Pressing a hand to his side, and his steps slowly falter to a stop. “I cannot go any further with you, _mi amora_ ,” he says.

She stops immediately, turning to him, her hands finding his arms. “Do you need rest? We can make camp, I can find water –” Zevran smiles weakly.

“I wish it were that,” he says. He unbuckles his armor, lets his bags drop to the sand. Peeling away layer after layer, until finally he can roll up his tunic. Her eyes widen when she sees it, hand trembling against her mouth. Looking at him, back at it, and she is reaching out to touch it.

“The taint,” she says softly, fingertips following the lines of blighted veins, “but we haven’t encountered any darkspawn, we –” She stops, looks up at him in horror. The slightest whisper, rasped and rattled on her tongue. “ _Me_. You got it from me.” He reaches upwards, takes her face in his hands.

“This is not your fault,” he says.

“Yes, it is,” she insists, “I knew you shouldn’t have come with me, you could have –”

“There is nowhere else I would rather be than at your side. Now, you must go on. Find the cure,” he tells her.

“No. No, no, no. Not without you,” she says. “I promised you that I would live out the rest our days together.”

“And you have. My days are spent. I am no Warden. I have managed as much as I could, but I can feel it. I cannot go any further with you,” he repeats it again, whispered urgently, and mumbled against her mouth. Kissing her fiercely, taking the knife from his belt, pressing it into her hand.

“If we find the cure –”

“ _Mi amora_. You have given me a life I did not know was possible. I would not have changed a thing. I have loved you so very much, and now I will wait for you. I will conquer the Dark City for you, hmm? Keep your throne warm,” he says. “Please. Do this for me. I am – not strong enough on my own.” Throwing her arms around him, hugging him close. They cannot seem to hold close enough, be near enough, squeezing tightly. They hide the tears from each other. The kiss tastes like salt. The kiss tastes like iron. She holds him as he falls, falling with him.


	307. Calm (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you write a quick & sweet zev warden drabble about them just spending some time together one of the nights after the archdemon was defeated? One of the few moments of calm they get

He finds her in the crowd, bloodied warriors and cheering mages, takes her hand in his. Guiding her free of this mass of people, stealing her away. Fort Drakon still burns. Denerim still burns. They shout her name, praise their savor, not realizing she isn’t there anymore. He finds them some hidden corner, a piece of quiet. She leans against the stone, closes her eyes as she rests her other hand on his shoulder. Staying so near to her, kissing her forehead. They stand still together, listening to the others celebrate the end of the fifth Blight.

They have a room waiting for her. There’s rubble in the hallway, more than a few scared maids. They’ve filled the tub, say nothing as Zevran goes with her, still hand in hand. Undressing each other, never more than a few steps apart. Frequently reaching for each other, as though to reassure one another that they’re real. Sinking into the water together, and she leans back into his embrace. Her hair swirls in the water, their knees stick out. Her back against his chest, and he is wrapping arms around her.

There’s exhaustion in the bones of them. An ache in every muscle, a tremor in their blood. They collapse into the bed, limb tangled in limb. It’s reassurance, comfort. His fingertips trail over her arm, trace the wounds still yet to be attended. The cut on her shoulder. The bruises on her ribs. An ankle slightly twisted, the blossoming purple on his thigh. She runs a hand through his hair, traces the tattoo on his face. He leans into her touch, resting her weight gently over her. He kisses the tip of her nose, her cheek, buries his face in the crook of her neck. Moving softly together, her hands splayed between his shoulder blades.

They sleep much the same, wrapped up together, blanket thrown across them haphazardly. He wakes to her gently running a hand across his shoulders, tucking stray locks of hair behind pointed ears. All tender touches, warmth and there are birds just outside the window. They chirp as though half the city had not been destroyed, as if bodies do not still line the street. But there will be time for that later. His elbows press into the bed as he raises himself slightly, rubs his nose against hers.

“We could leave,” she says, “go anywhere we want.”

“Whatever you decide, I am yours, _mi amora_ ,” he tells her.


	308. An End before Beginning (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "There is so rarely and end before a beginning" for Fenhawke?

A bed not her own. A scent so familiar, in a place she thought she’d never be. Breathing in deeply as she raises her head from the pillow, legs tangled up in blankets. Stretching out her arm where she expects to find something, finds nothing. Elbow pressing into the mattress as she rubs her eyes, slowly moving to kneel on the bed. Hair mussed, curling at her cheek, sunlight reflected on the empty sheets through the cracks in his roof. A fear she thought she’d never have to face. Hand fisting in one of the blankets, pulling it from the bed with her, wrapping it around her.

Bare feet on the cold floor, blanket trailing after her. Fingertips light on the banister as she walks down the stairs, and everything seems so still. He has no candles to light, a broken chandelier, dirt on the windows and dust in the air. Hawke smiles slightly as she pauses in the doorway, holding the blanket to her chest as she watches his back. Hunched over the counter and the shirt is far too large for him, hanging off a shoulder. He turns when he hears her, an egg still in his hand. “Did I wake you?” She shakes her head as she leans against him, wraps arms around him.

A hand threading through his hair, breathing him in. He lets the egg fall from his grasp as he welcomes the embrace, hands underneath the blanket, at her hip, wrapping around her. Burying his head in the crook of her neck squeezing her tightly. His hugs always feel so complete. No space lost between them, hands splayed against her back. It’s as though he’s wrapping her up in him, heat and scent, and it’s all she can do but be swept away in it. “I thought you left,” she says quietly, voice still hoarse from sleep.

Straightening himself, that knot between his brows. Fenris’s hands on her face, trying to tame that mess of hair, tucking it behind her ears. Thumbs over cheekbones and she’s closing her eyes, lost in his touch, hands fisting in the front of his tunic. “I’m sorry Hawke. I wasn’t – I didn’t think.” Nose brushing against hers, that long kiss that asks her forgiveness, love in the lighter one that comes after. They had ended before they had truly begun, but now… standing in his kitchen, wrapped in his blanket, his hands on her shoulders.

Opening her eyes to look up at him, his hands traveling up and down her arms. Despite the end, and all that came after, she wouldn’t change anything for the world. “Forgive me?” He asks and she makes a thoughtful noise as she stretches, arms above her head, and he catches the blanket before it falls. Stealing it from his grasp, pulling it over her head and then his, messing his hair beneath her hands.

“Always,” she says, standing on her tiptoes, finding his lips with hers.


	309. A Contest (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For DA Fic Swap, with their OC.

“There isn’t much new activity in the Hinterlands,” she says as she turns the page, scans the words. “There have been some reports of Venatori sighted in the Hissing Wastes, apparently interested in a few ancient ruins hidden there.” Cullen is rubbing his temple as she speaks, feeling the attention slip away from him. He’s been reading reports all day, monotonous and eerily similar, nothing of interest all day long. Part of him was hoping she had knocked on the door to his office for a different reason, but no, more reports.

“Cyriel.” She looks up, startled in mid-sentence, blinks at her name. “Listen, I – did you want to get a drink?”

“Yes,” she says maybe a little too quickly. “I mean. Yes, yes a drink would be nice.”

“Oh thank the Maker,” Cullen says as he pushes himself up from the desk. He holds out his hand for the clipboard, which she passes to him. He tosses it onto his desk without looking, already heading for the door. He never tires of Skyhold. Stepping out onto the battlements, presented with the glory of the mountains, the delicate pattern of stars overhead. Cyriel has her hands clasped behind her back, a small spring in her step as she follows after him.

Soldiers look over their shoulders as he enters, scouts give him wary looks. _This_ is why he doesn’t take up many offers for drinks. This is why he never goes on his own. His presence is – well, he knows it can be difficult to separate the Commander from the man sometimes. He chooses a table far from the others, from prying eyes, but Cyriel doesn’t seem to mind. She’s already ordering drinks, fingers in the air, smiling at the barmaid.

He stares at the amber liquid in the mug before him, before taking a small sip. “Bah, I still have no taste for alcohol.” Cyriel’s eyebrows rise.

“You came here from Kirkwall though! I thought everyone in Kirkwall was pretty well acquainted with drinking.” Cullen chuckles, scratches the back of his neck.

“There were very few places for someone like me to drink. The Hanged Man was always guaranteed to have someone’s from Hawke’s crew there and if they caught you, Andraste have mercy on you. I had more than one Templar returned to the barracks stuffed in a pretty dress, babbling nonsense, at the crack of dawn. Then there was the Blooming Rose but it – I, ah, never felt comfortable stepping inside,” he tells her.

“I see,” she says, laughing into the back of her hand, “Ladies make you nervous?”

“No! No. The ladies were fine – I mean – you know what I mean. It was the place most Templars felt comfortable drinking and who wants to drink with their Knight Captain around?” At that, he takes a sweeping glance over the tavern, sees more than one head turned towards them. Cyriel follows his gaze, sees the same thing he does.

“You’re allowed to do things on your own time Cullen,” she says.

“So I’ve been told,” he tells her with a smile. How many times had Cassandra cornered him? How many times had even Josephine told him to get out of his office? More than once even Leliana had sent her own scouts to scold him. “Still, I am their Commander. I – have made myself unapproachable, because of that, I think,” he says. Gloves around the mug, drops of condensation rolling onto the leather. Cyriel looks into her mug, peers over into his.

“We have about the same amount. On the count of three, we’re going to drink and the winner is whoever can finish first,” she says. He looks up from where he’s been staring at the table, eyes wide.

“Wait, what?”

“One.”

“Cyriel, I don’t think -”

“Two.”

“Maker’s breath.”

“Three!” At the count of three, both of them raise their mugs. If there was once thing he could always count on himself to be, it was competitive. She’s looking at him over the rim, smiling in-between gulps, before closing her eyes and focusing. They slam their mugs down on the table at the same time, flecks of foam landing on the wood, grinning at each other.

“Too close to call,” she says. Turning in her chair, raising her hand again, calling for more drinks. Cullen laughs, shakes his head.

“This is ridiculous,” he says.

“Good,” she tells him, “you’re allowed to be ridiculous once in a while.” By the third mug, there are people crowded around the table. Soldier, scout and every sort of person Skyhold has collected. Stomping their feet, clapping their hands, cheering as Cyriel’s mug lands before Cullen’s does. Sera is leaning dangerously over the railing, screaming Cyriel’s name as she wobbles back and forth. Coin is being exchanged, scouts triumphant in the support of one of their own. Cyriel whoops, laughing with her hands in the air, cheeks pink with delight.

“ _This_ is not fair,” he says with a smile, elbow on the table, pointing at her. “You’re already good at this.” Cyriel smirks as she leans over the table.

“Well, _Commander_ , when we’re sober let’s try something in your area of expertise. Is it paperwork?” Cyriel says smugly.

“Oh you – you are on. And no, it’ll be something in the training arena,” he says. Her smile is infectious, and he can’t stop himself from mirroring her. When was the last time he had this much fun? When was the last time he felt at ease, not thinking about anything else? Soldiers have their hands cupped around their mouth, cheering his name, telling him to win. The table is cleared, another set of mugs set down before them.

“It’s a date,” Cyriel says, wrapping her hands around the mug.

* * *

“Here are your orders for today,” Cullen says as he pinches the bridge of his nose, “please. Please just take them. Quietly.” He finds the chair, sits carefully, ignoring the knowing grins his officers exchange. They do their best to walk softly, taking report after report, before finally leaving his office. Until only one is left. He feels terrible, he knows she must feel the same, but Maker, she still looks wonderful.

“How’s the hangover?” she asks with a smile. He makes a miserable grunt. “Me too.” She puts a small box on the table. “Make some tea with this. It’ll help.” He reaches out, his hand over hers, stopping her from leaving.

“Thank you, Cyriel. For this and – for last night. It was… It was a lot of fun,” he tells her with a smile. She happily smiles back.

“Yeah, it was.”


	310. Ghosting (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "OC forced to kill their LI." For Fenhawke??
> 
> I think the accepted angst for the ‘bad future’ in ‘In Hushed Whispers’ is red-lyrium Fenris, but what if it was Hawke who succumbed to something?

Some of them whisper. Some of them shout. Little voices standing beside her. Breath that isn’t breath in her ear. A ghostling touch to the back of her neck. And the words. _What is she doing?_ They never end. S _tanding still again. Watching. The coward._ Arms crossed as she stands in front of the fire, turns to look out the window. She thinks she once knew what the sky looked like. It’s not coming back. She can’t remember anymore. Moving to press her hand against the glass, cold to the touch, in the middle of summer. _Why isn’t she running? Run!_ The sudden fear grips her, and she presses a cold hand against her chest, shudders breath.

“Hawke,” he reaches out, tucks an errant hair behind her ear. “Are you alright?” Don’t tell him. Why would she? She knows what he’d think. _Don’t tell him. Tell him! He’ll know what to do! You know what he’ll say._ She smiles as she reaches up, catches his hand as it falls, links theirs together.

“I’m fine,” she says. _Good. No! You can’t tell him. You should. You know what he’ll say. Do you want to hear it?_ “Is Aveline looking for us?” Fenris nods. “Let’s go then.” The Keep has only few rooms left. Most of it is rubble now, either from the sundering of the Fade or the bombardments of Tevinter’s trebuchets. The sick and injured line the hallway, children curled under the arms of their parents, and so few are left to fight. _If only you’d stopped it sooner_. The door to the throne room opens easily, and Aveline is with the others, standing over the map. _You should have left sooner._

“We’ve lost contact with those in this region. I’ve heard that Cullen and the last of the Inquisition forces are assaulting Redcliffe but nothing since. It’s likely they’ve been wiped out,” she’s saying as she circles an area with her finger. “I’ve heard reports from some contacts that most of the mages have turned.” She looks up at Hawke. _She knows. You see. You’ve been found out_. “The proximity of the Fade is too much for them to handle.” Fenris holds her hand a little tighter.

 _He doesn’t know. You didn’t tell him. You should have said something! What is she doing?_ Aveline sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose as she stands up straighter. “I think it’s best if we keep the remaining mages isolated.”

“No,” Fenris says instantly. It’s as though she’s being enveloped by a thousand arms, wrapping around her. The hand at her throat, fingers no one else can see bruising into her flesh. _Don’t tell him_. “Hawke is fine. She isn’t like other mages.” _And as the black clouds came upon them_. His hand slips from hers as he moves against the edge of the table, challenging Aveline. _They looked on what pride had wrought_. Hawke presses her hands against her temples, squeezing her eyes closed, grits her teeth. _And despaired._

Hawke’s magic has always been fire. Heat unlike any others, surrounded by the flame. Fenris’s words die in his throat when he sees his breath hanging like fog in the air. The chill sweeps around the room, slams the door closed. Aveline draws her sword as Fenris turns around. “Hawke?” She still has hands pressed against her head.

“I’ve been hearing them for so long,” she murmurs, “I’m – listening.” Fenris immediately runs to her, puts hands on her shoulders.

“Listen to me Hawke. Come back. This isn’t you,” he tells her fiercely. She stands up straight as she rests her hands on his shoulders. Opening her eyes, and her pupils bloom black.

“This is me. For the first time in my life I feel,” she breathes in deeply, the smile spreading across her face, “ _free_.” Breathing out, and the ice cracks underneath their feet.


	311. A Little Warmth (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Hey! Merry Christmas I hope you’re feeling better! If you’re feeling up to taking prompts, in honour of how damn cold it is here in Canada at the moment, how about fenris and f!hawke staying warm in the cold?

Pulling the blanket around his shoulders, reaching out a hand. Snow is falling through the cracks of his roof, delicate flakes, melting in his palm. He’s always enjoyed the silence of winter. Muffled and muted, some faint wind, some sweeping cold. Red fingertips, white knuckles, breath fogging in the air. There’s a circle of warmth around the fire that doesn’t reach the bed where he sits, foot playing with other foot, pressing together in an effort of heat. Slipping his hand back inside the blanket where he huddles, into a fist, feeling the wet of snow and dullness in his fingers.

She knocks in the afternoon, a scarf wrapped around her neck and wearing a hat that’s probably too large for her. She takes one look at him, in that paltry blanket, and sighs. “You really should just come stay with me,” she says.

“You ask this every winter,” he tells her.

“And I won’t stop asking you until you agree,” she says. Fenris sits back on the bed, chuckles as Hawke puts hands on her hips, looks at him disapprovingly. She pulls open the bag she’s brought with her, starts putting things on the bed beside him.

“I thought you might need new ones,” she says as she passes him a pair of mittens. More socks than he can count, a badly knit hat that matches her own. He suspects she might have made it herself. Three blankets and a sweater, and Hawke is pulling off her own mittens, stuffing them in her pockets.

“This worries me. You worry me. Every day I think I’m going to find you frozen to death,” she says. She reaches out to him, and he moves back only slightly but accepts the touch when he realizes he can’t escape. Warm hands on his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. Leaning down towards him and that frown still hasn’t left her face. She’s always been a heat all her own, a fire of a different sort. The magic blooms, blossoms, warmth that spreads from the tips of his ears to his toes. He closes his eyes, lets himself sink into it.

“I have a guest room,” she says quietly, “please come stay with me. I promise I won’t be a bother. You’ll barely even know I’m there. Bodahn will make those pies you like.” She’s been so careful. It’s taken some time to find their balance again, that friendship that can only extend so far. His own fault, but she’s never blamed him. Her hands slip from his face, find her mittens once again. “Even if you don’t agree now, please promise me that if it ever gets too cold here, you will come and find me.”

* * *

It’s Bodahn who opens the door for him, late that night. “She’s in the study,” he tells him. Hawke’s fallen asleep by the fire, draped over the couch. One foot on the armrest, the other on the floor. The book on her chest, pages creased, a hand on its spine. Fenris collects her other hand from where it hands, places it on her chest by the other. Finding that spare blanket, pulling it over her. He smiles as he reaches out, fixes that stray lock of hair that’s fallen across her face.

“The spare bedroom is ready for you,” Bodahn says quietly in the doorway. Fenris looks over his shoulders, nods gratefully.

“Thank you.” Bodahn leaves without another word, as Fenris gently takes the book from her grasp. Folding himself into the chair very near her, fixing the folded pages. Fingers tracing words he doesn’t quite recognize, words he’s learning. Hawke shifts where she sleeps, lying on her side and pulling up her knees. Her hands are still folded by her chest, winding into the blanket. The fire continues to burn without interruption, heat reaching far. A different kind of quiet here, a softer silence. Something easy, comfortable, a peace he could reach out and take. He adjusts the red wrapped around his wrist. One day soon. 


	312. A Friend (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: F O R T Y T H R E E ! ! ! “She’s my best friend. That hasn’t changed.” “It’s clear your feelings for her has.”

She thoughtfully cultivates the friendship. It’s a care in the way she speaks, the things she says. Curbing her tongue, making corrections where needed. It’s observance in the touch, how he shies away from the hand on the back but will accept a hand extended. Interest in what he might like, helping him discover the things he does. He doesn’t like sour things, finds a fondness for sweets. Hawke thinks it might be chocolate at first, but that soon shifts into pastries, the flaking crumble of a danish.

He protests when she insists on cleaning the kitchen. “I never use it,” he says.

“Probably because it’s filthy,” she tells him as she scrubs the counters. Fenris grumbles, follows her lead. Sweeping out the dust and dirt from the floor, standing on chairs to catch the cobwebs atop the cupboards. They scrape the oven together, shine the floor on hands and knees. With a wave of her hand, Hawke lights the candles, puts her hands on her hips.

“Isn’t this better?” she asks. It’s a change. He doesn’t want to put care into the mansion. Perhaps it’s out of distaste for its previous owner, a grudge he can hold and can see. Perhaps it’s because he simply doesn’t want to. Mostly it’s because he never thought he’d stay. What was the point in keeping something when you planned to run? Hawke puts a hand on his arm as she slips past him, a touch that informs him of her being in his space.

The next day she brings a bag. Putting it on the kitchen table, taking out apples and jars. He reaches for one, but she stops him from taking one. “I made sure the count was exactly right,” she says. Flour and sugar, butter and milk, salt and eggs. Fenris finds a bowl, a knife. Her instructions are light, easy enough to understand. “I used to watch my mom do this all the time.” It’s casual talk while they work. He can offer no childhood memories, but he finds himself happy to listen to her speak. Of scraped knees and cut braids, punching the bully who dared make fun of Bethany’s freckles.

He carefully memorizes the measurements, how much of what goes in which jar. How to roll, where to cut, how long to bake, where the dial sits. He holds the parchment with the instructions in his hand, Hawke’s neat script, places it on the counter. “Now you’ll be able to make them any time you want,” she says, sitting at the table, a smudge of flour on her cheek. She smiles, brushes hair behind her ear. Part of him wants to reach out, brush the flour from her face. She finds it first, fingertips rubbing it away. A small amount of regret, for not having acted sooner. He clears his throat, turns his attention back to the oven.

A strange thing, to have a friend. Sitting at the table together, waiting for the pastries to cool. Speaking of such mundane things, but still he listens as though she is recounting the most fascinating thing. He supposes that, to him, it is. Watching the way her mouth moves as she speaks, how she moves her hands to match the words. That stubborn lock of hair that insists on straying across her face, the way she holds her belly when she laughs. She’s taken by all of it, every inch of life, and he aspires to do the same. For now he can only chuckle at her mirth, offer what little return he can. She listens with eyes wide and attention given, never straying from a single word.

He knows the others are his friends. He’s never doubted this. But still, with Hawke, it feels… different. Changed as the months pass, fonder in the weeks that follow, a thought that lingers at the front of his mind. He makes the pastries for her, brings them to her door. Leandra invites him inside while Gamlen grumbles, and Carver pulls up an extra chair to the table. Hawke is no less lively here, but her gaze lingers on Fenris often. He notices, for he is doing the same, exchanging glance after glance, looking away when the other notices.

Hawke stands, moves to clean the plates. Leandra leans over, puts a hand on his wrist. “It’s so nice that you care for my daughter,” she says. “She needs friends.”

“You say that like I’ve never had a friend in my life,” Hawke says over her shoulder. Fenris laughs at the rebuttal, but his ears flatten, the tips turning red. Yes, a friend. But maybe more.


	313. Maps (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 313. I love your work its so good and nice to read when Im having a stressful day thank you. But I hope you dont mind can I request circlemage warden x zevran maybe both bonding and feelings growing as they talk about traveling the world together away from the crows and circle him wanting to show her places hes traveled to

“You must visit here,” he says as he puts his hand over hers. Guiding it gently, fingertips over the glittering letters of Antiva. “I will be your guide of course.” The inn is crowded, filled with people going about their own business. No one notices them in the corner, that small table with the one candle, the map between them. Morrigan crawled into the bed as soon as she could, while Alistair preferred to stay in his room with the meat pie.

Zevran’s hand moves hers to the next place. “Rivain you must visit in the summer. Their beaches are spectacular. The bluest water you’ve ever seen,” he tells her. He’s the summer as much as the one he’s describing, full of a warmth all his own, like sand under sun. The candlelight flickers on his face, against the lines of his smile, the mark of his tattoo.

“They never allowed us to look at maps,” she says, “I never imagined I’d be able to travel.” His thumb brushes over her knuckles, shifts and moves to press her palm against his, interlace their fingers. It sits there, on the table for all the world to see. Other apprentices, enchanters, would hold hands under the table, hiding it from the Templars. She smiles and gives his hand a small squeeze.

“I have had the pleasure of travelling far and wide,” he says as he presses his other hand against his chest, “and once this is done I will take you to all the best places.”

“Once this is done,” she echoes.

“Yes,” he tells her, “no archdemon lives forever.”

“And no one is a crow forever,” she says.

“Mhmm, yes, although death is the usual freedom,” he says. She puts her other hand over theirs, leans forward.

“They expect you to be alone. You aren’t,” she tells him. He blinks in surprise, before the smile breaks like waves against the shore. His laughter is the water, bright amber eyes the sun.

“I would take you anywhere you wished to go,” he says, shifting the way he holds her hand, raising it to his lips, pressing the kiss to the back of her hand. “My Warden.”


	314. Hands (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Fenris/fhawke jealous kiss please <3

It’s in the palm of her hand. Fingertips over softer skin, drifting over the boundary of her wrist, following the line of her fingers. She reaches upwards, and he feels her touch against his face. The affectionate brush of a thumb against his cheekbone. Taking her hand in his, winding them together. Palm against palm and if those fortunes tell it true, future in the lines that cross, then his future is bound with hers. The hills of her knuckles, smooth plains just further, the scar there, a freckle here. A heat that’s like no other, a warmth all her own, and she smiles, pulls Fenris close.

Wrapping his arms around her as her hands flutter on his back, slip upwards, and thread through his hair. He lets his weight settle gently against her, and she entwines their legs together. Tracing the line of a pointed ear, pinching a strand of hair between her fingers. She is a longing to touch, leg that rubs against leg, hands that drift. Pressing a kiss to the crown of his head and he smiles into the crook of her neck. The solitary safety of their bed, so distant from everything else.

He sees it time and time again, at these things she’s forced to attend, where he’s begun to follow. The nobles who bend before her, reach for her hand, kiss the back of it. These mouths that give false flattery, tell Hawke all they think she wants to hear in an effort to win her. Dishonest tongues, deceitful lips. There is something about it, the way they linger for too long bowed before her, hand in hand, that bothers him. She doesn’t need his defense, his jealousy. Hawke is Hawke, and she always wrenches her hand from theirs, clenches her hand into a first. More than capable of repelling them herself, but still it twists in him.

Gathering her up in his arms, listening to her laugh as he flips them. His hair splayed against the pillow, his back against the mattress. She pushes herself up as she straddles him, a finger that moves from the corner of his jaw to his chin. He catches her hands before she can pull them away. Propping himself up on an elbow as their hands twist together. Pulling it towards him, pressing his lips to the back of her hand. A kiss that mirrors there, but this, this is different. Sincere and meant to erase, his touch over theirs.

She leans forward, that other hand tucking hair behind his ear. Locking finger against finger, pressing him back to lie upon the bed. Their hands against the pillow as she bends over him, strand of hair falling after strand, a veil around his vision. Tracing circles on her arm, over rib and settling at hip, thigh and knee. She tastes like strawberries. Capturing his bottom lip between hers, wet and warm, and he opens his mouth to her. She deepens it, tongue against tongue, and his free hand moves to the nape of her neck. Pulling her even closer, body against body, skin against skin, and they will never have her the way she gives herself to him.


	315. Notes (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 1 for some modern fenhawke?? 

It’s the table no one else really goes to. Under the light that occasionally flickers, and the pipe that tends to shake. The carpet doesn’t reach there and it’s hidden behind rows of dusty old books. He’s here again. She takes the only other seat on the other side of the table, resting her bag on the floor and books on the table. He doesn’t look up from what he’s reading, turns the page. For the fifth straight day, they exist together in silence. She reads while he writes down some note or another. She hides behind the book when he gets up to leave.

She’s there first the next day. He sighs when he sits down, pulls the hat from his head and throws it onto the table. Running a hand through white hair, pinching the bridge of his nose before he adjusts his glasses. She tears off a piece of paper, scribbles quickly, and slides it across the table. He looks at it for a moment, blinks, then picks it up. He reads it quickly – _communications_ – then turns over the scrap. He passes it back. His script is neat if blocky, a clear _architecture_. She smiles at him, he props up his book. Tearing off another piece, and it appears over his pages. Third year? On her notebook a scrap with second written appears.

He’s already there when she gets there. Dropping all her things in a rush, putting her head in her hands. Pressing palms against her eyes, running a hand through her hair. A piece of paper appears just below her. _Are you alright?_ She leans over, rummages through her bag for a pen. _I’m going to fail this test_ she passes back. S _omething tells me you’ll be fine_. It makes her oddly confident. He’s not there the next day, and she isn’t there the one after that. When they see each other again, a piece of paper slides across the table. _How did the test go_?

 _At least I didn’t fail_ she writes back. Reading the scrap, giving her a nod of approval. He brings in a small notebook the next day. _My name is Fenris_ is written on the first line when he gives it to her. On the second she writes _Hawke_. Day in and day out, little sentences on little lines.

_Fancy seeing you here._

_I study here, what’s your excuse?_

She finds he likes to nap most days, crossing his arms and resting his head, his phone in his hand. It rumbles with the alarm and he always wakes gracefully, eyes opening and leaning back in his chair. She brings food, begins to pack herself extra. He likes the cupcakes she brings best. _You’re going to make me fat_ he writes. _Is that even possible for you_? He smirks. _Keep bringing cupcakes and you’ll find out_. Days slip into weeks, and weeks slip into months. On the day before last, she doesn’t write any words but gives him a number. Her phone rumbles with his text. It would be too easy to text back.

She smiles across the table. “Hello,” she says. His eyes slowly look up to find hers.

“Hello,” he answers.  


	316. Broken Bow (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 7 - “What you did what stupid and dangerous and scared the hell out of me.” from the angst part of the drabble list

“Dorian!” He knows, he sees it too. It doesn’t make him any less stuck. Mahanon is raching towards him, reaching out, and grabbing him by the shoulders. He pulls at Dorian hard, swinging him out of the way just as the hammer comes down. There’s a sickening crack as Mahanon’s bow snaps in two. Splintered wood falls to the ground as Mahanon is flung backwards, lying motionless in the dirt.

The Venatori turns his attention back towards Dorian, who draws on the last of his reserves. Forming lightning in his fist, letting the electricity of it run through his body, draw from him. Then he sets it free. It catches the brute in the chest, a jolt that pulses through and through, stopping his heart. Dorian turns towards Mahanon, where he’s raised himself on hands and knees. Crawling away, drooling blood. A single glance tells him that Bull and Cole are drawing the remaining Venatori away. It gives Dorian the opening he needs to go to him.

A gentle hand on Mahanon’s back tells Dorian instantly that there are some cracked ribs. Sitting down on the ground, pulling Mahanon onto his lap. The elf rests his head against his shoulder, back against his chest. Dorian wraps his arms around him, bracing him, keeping hands on his chest. He pours whatever magic he has left into Mahanon, an attempt to heal what is broken. Mahanon’s head turns, nestles itself into the crook of Dorian’s neck.

“You stupid, gorgeous, idiot,” Dorian says, “you scared the hell out of me! You should have just let me handle it. You’re the damn Herald of Andraste!”

“And you’re Dorian, an altus of Tevinter,” Mahanon says weakly. “That’s important too.” He says it as reaches up slowly, gives a tug to the edges of Dorian’s mustache. Dorian quickly reaches for his hand, pulling it down, holding it tight in his. He feels the smile rather than sees it.

“What do you have to smile about?” Dorian asks.

“You’re warm,” Mahanon says.

“I’m warm,” Dorian repeats flatly. Scoffing under his breath, letting himself sag with relief.


	317. Violence Solves A Lot (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: hey uh hi, i love you and i want you to do a writing. i read them and 24. “Are you SURE I can’t punch him in the face?” “Yes.” “What if I break his nose a little?”

“Were not the Ferelden and Kirkwall Circle both spectacular failures?” The man’s lip curls in distaste, and he adjusts the golden buttons on his jacket. “The Inquisition needs better. Some disgraced _former_ Templar will not do.” Cullen closes his eyes, his hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword. Gripping it tightly, white knuckles hidden behind leather gloves. Focusing his breathing as the man continues to speak. “The Inquisition is sullied by catering to trash.”

Ellana’s hands slap down on the armrests of the throne. “Okay!” Her voice is oddly high-pitched, the grin etched on her face. “Okay! I’ve heard enough.” The man smiles, straightens himself, seems to think that she somehow agrees. Standing up from the throne, making her way down the steps. Cullen knows that swagger. He rushes forward, but doesn’t make it in time. The slap echoes in the hall. The man makes some strangled shocked noise, stumbles back holding his cheek.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen says as he holds Ellana back. She’s still struggling forward, pointing at the noble.

“You’re a piece of shit. I’ll kill you, I don’t even care,” Ellana hisses. Josephine is drawn by the noise, needs only one look to assess the situation.

“ _Inquisitor_ ,” Cullen says again, wrapping an arm around her waist and beginning to pull her away. Stubbornly sticking to floor, he practically throws her over his shoulder to drag her out. As she disappears through the doorway to the war room, all the noble can see is two middle fingers sticking out from around Cullen’s cloak.

Cullen closes the door to the war room behind him. Ellana’s ears are flattened in anger, her arms crossed. She leans against the table, the tips of her ears still burning. “You should let me go back,” she grumbles, “I want to punch him in the face.” Cullen chuckles under his breath.

“I don’t think Josephine would appreciate that very much,” he tells her.

“What if I break his nose a little?” She smiles at the laughter that cracks through. Moving forward to him, putting her hand on his arm.

“Cullen,” she says with sudden seriousness, “you belong here. I want no one else leading the Inquisition’s forces. I want – no one else by my side.” He smiles, brushes a thumb against her cheek.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence in this trash.” It earns him a punch of his own, playful, against his arm.


	318. Grief (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you write fenris helping hawke deal with the grief of losing her mother? Not when he goes to her right after, but in the time that follows? I’m going through similar feelings and it’s almost like re-learning how to be a person but with vital parts of you missing and it’s a slow process.

There’s a quiet in her poise, absent-minded thought to her touch. Only the faintest surprise registered when he asked her to dinner. The rest was a smile that wasn’t truly a smile, easy agreement. She’s turning the onion in her hands, thumbs pressing at the skin of it. Wisps of hair curl at her cheek, unruly strands that escape the messy knot. She stands on one leg, bare feet, the other rubbing against the back of her heel. Leggings that have a knee missing. A shirt that’s too large. The necklace Leandra used to wear. Putting the onion on the cutting board, holding the knife in her hands.

On any other day, they might have talked. Laughed even, discussing whatever came to mind. Hawke’s usual chatter, waving the knife around dangerously as she speaks. On any other day, but not for the past few weeks. Now they stand side by side in silence as Fenris crushes the garlic, as the knife slices through the onion. Merrill tried to fill the silence with chatter of her own, while Isabela has taken to touching Hawke far too much. Aveline has been dropping things just to help Hawke pick them up, even Varric’s jokes have been seeming forced. Anders had brought her a kitten, disappointed when she gave it back. Fenris doesn’t mind her silence, knows she needs it, and finds comfort in it. He also knows she’ll need to speak of it soon. All of it.

It’s there, just beneath the surface. A ghost underneath her skin, wrapped around her bones, seeping through her veins. Learning how to be corporeal, trying to be Hawke again. He looks over at the hiss, sees her with her thumb in her mouth. A frown as he wraps a hand around her wrist, gently pulling it down for him to see. The slice, the blood that pools and falls. “A moment,” he says, “I’ll fetch the bandages.”

“It’s really nothing. My own silly mistake,” she says as she leans her hip against the counter, as he keeps her hand resting in his. Fingertips at the back of her hand, a thumb in her palm. Moving in slow circles, and the frown lingers. “Fenris?”

“You have been – distracted, lately,” he says.

“Have I?” The smile is small, distant. She looks at her hand, the careful way in which he holds it, while the other presses against the counter, curls into a fist. Close like this, her head tilted down, and he can see her long lashes, count every freckle. Hawke is still Hawke, even so slightly hushed, a little muted. Being what she needs to be, doing what needs to be done. He just wants to be by her side. He wants her to know that she is allowed to lean. Learn what she’s already taught him, know that asking for help is no weakness.

“Tell me,” he says. She looks up, puzzled and he keeps her gaze. “Tell me.” It’s the permission she needs to let her shoulders sag, to reach for him. The permission to let the wall crumble, the mask fall. Hawke takes a step closer, rests her head on his shoulder. Letting her hand go so that it may join the other, hug him tightly. Gently they sway together, a softer dance to silent music, his arms wrapping around her.

“I feel like I’m putting together the pieces of a puzzle that I’ve never seen, and these pieces… they’re broken. Warped. Missing,” she says softly. “I don’t understand how things are supposed to fit anymore. I’m – trying. But I…” her words trail off, muffled against his chest. Her hands fist in his tunic, tremble slightly.

“It will not be easy, but you will not be alone,” he tells her.


	319. Trust (Zevran x F!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Can I prompt you to write something where the warden is super stressed out before landsmeet, and has been lashing out on everyone including zevran who’s upset with her & not talking to her, but seeing how stressed she is tries to talk it out and calm her down in a nsfw-ish way?

A snap. The biting word. Crossed arms and the knot between her brows. Closed and closing, bristling at any who come near. The others let her be. He knows better. “What?” It’s asked between clenched teeth, a terse jaw. Knuckles white as she holds her arms, fingers biting into skin. He holds out his hand to her, gestures for her to take it. “Zevran, I don’t have time for whatever this is,” she says. She expects some retort, some reply, but he says nothing. Perhaps it’s the shock of his silence that makes her reach out, put her hand in his.

Guiding her to the bath, where he places her by the counter. She leans against it, watches as he drags a bucket near. Turning it upside down, placing it by her feet. Gathering another, filling it with water from the bath, placing it on the other side. There’s a knife by where she leans, a towel, a fresh bar of soap. He kneels down before her, reaching for the lacings of her trousers. “Zevran,” there’s a warning in the tone of her voice, but he neatly undoes the knot. Lifting her hips away from the counter to pull them down to her feet. She steps out of them, allows him to lift her leg and put her foot on the overturned bucket.

She returns to crossed arms, watches as he examines the mound of her with a clinical gaze. A line of shivers runs down her spine when he reaches for the knife, puts it beside him. Taking the soap in his hands, dipping them into the water. Working up the lather, before reaching for her. It’s always been different when he touches her. She’s used to touching herself, knowing how to touch, but it has always been a thing that needs to be done. There’s no excitement, no thrill, no true pleasure. His fingers have always been skilled, but here…

He covers her carefully in the soap, wetting the soft curls of her cunt. There’s no pleasure in this task. Rinsing off his hands, reaching for the towel to dry them. Only then does he pick up the knife again. Cold metal against her inner thigh, and that chill again. Gooseflesh that breaks out like a rash, and his shoulder keeps her from bringing in her leg. She forces herself to keep it planted, watching as he leans forward. He works gently, carefully, knife pressed against skin.

The sound of it seems more vulgar than the act. The sheering of it, giving way to something smoother. The curls fall between her legs. He is careful to wash the knife after every trim, soap when needed. He does not look away from his task. She allows her hands to fall, to curl around the counter as she watches him. Letting shoulders sag, her head tilt back. Closing her eyes and letting her mind go blank. Listening to the splash of water, the shift of his movements. Feeling his hands so near to the most delicate parts of her, and the metal, and never once does he cut her.

Cupping water in his hands, washing away the soap and the stray hair. It runs down her legs, settles at his knees. His hand around her ankle, working its way up her leg. Only then does he press his mouth to her cunt, the kiss to her clit. A tease, a taste, her head falls back to look at him. He’s still holding the knife. He leans back, points it at her. Pressing it into her skin, hard enough but not enough to puncture. “If you trust me with a knife at your cunt, then you should trust me at your back against these nobles,” he says. “They do not know you like I do. They do not yet realize they are inferior.”

“Did you think you would be facing them alone? We have followed you through Ferelden. We have followed you _under_ Ferelden. We would not abandon you now. You may be the Warden, yes, hurrah, but we are your companions. We promised to stand at your side against any threat and by your side we will stand against this threat,” he says as he rises to his feet, throwing the knife to the side, embedding it in the wall.

“Stop thinking you are doing this alone. You are not. Alistair has been sulking for two days since you snapped at him and even Oghren is pouting,” he tells her, “stop pushing us away when you need us most.” Her cheeks are a stubborn red as he moves very near to her, his nose brushing against hers. She sighs defeat, understanding, and nods slightly. A hand in her hair, pulling her head back. He turns her deftly, bends her over the counter. Keeping her head down as his other hand runs down her back. Cupping her ass before moving to her cunt, running fingers through wet folds.

“Now. We are going to fuck, you are going to cum, and then you will apologize. Yes?”

“Yes,” she says through exhaled breath. He smiles at her answer. Water spills at his first thrust, his cock buried to the hilt inside of her. Her foot knocking over the bucket of water and the soap swims across the floor.


	320. Keys (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: i found this prompt elsewhere and i NEED IT LISA PLS “You’re the bastard who keeps parking right in front of my house so I retaliated by keying your car and you caught me” f!fenhawke AU

She’s standing in the middle of the street, books in one arm, keys in her other hand as she stares at it. Another night, the same car half blocking the driveway. She’s parked behind it, very close to it, a silent protest. Looking down the street to her left, seeing no one. To the right, seeing the same. Everyone in their houses and no sign of who it might belong to. Hawke sighs as she walks up the driveway, puts keys in the lock. “It’s there again,” she says as she drops the books onto the couch, sits beside them. Aveline turns the page, doesn’t look up.

“If it bothers you that much, then leave a note or something,” she says. Hawke snorts amusement.

“This has gone past a simple note,” she says, “I’ve _left_ notes. No, I need something else to get the message across.” Aveline sighs, closes the book.

“Don’t tell me, I can already feel it’s going to get you in trouble. If I get a call from the station, I’m not bailing you out,” she says as she crosses the room, moves to the stairs. “I’m going to bed and I’m leaving my phone off.”

Hawke turns, kneeling on the couch, staring out the window and down the lawn. That damn car. Every single day. A piece of shit too, looking like it’s on its last legs. Making up her mind, she grabs her keys as she leaves, marches down the driveway. Hawke crouches down by the car, flips the keys up in the hair, and catches them deftly. One between thumb and finger, a hand pressed against the door, getting to work. Head close to it in order to see in the dark, focusing on getting the images just right. She takes her time with it, lost in concentration.

A witch. A field of cows. A stick figure.

“Is this you putting a plague on my cows and I?” Hawke rockets backwards into the grass, the keys falling from her grasp. He has an arm resting over his knees where he crouches, holding his elbow, resting his chin on his knuckles. A bemused grin rests on his face, watching as she puts two and two together. Staring at the car door, staring at him, back to the door. Slowly back to him. Palms in dewy grass, frozen where she’s fallen. The blood drains from her face, pools in her stomach.

He reaches down, picks up her keys before he stands over her. Extending a hand towards her, somehow still smiling. Hawke nervously takes his hand, and he helps her to her feet. “I’m really sorry,” she says.

“No you’re not,” he says as he holds out her keys, drops them into her hand.

“I’ve left you notes about blocking the driveway,” she blurts out. His eyebrows raise as he runs a hand through silvery white hair. His eyes are so green they seem to glow, and the hoodie fits nicely on him. If he were a gross old man this would be easier.

“They must have been taken, or blown away as I haven’t seen any,” he says. Her eyes narrow. He doesn’t seem like he’s lying. He puts his hands in his pockets as he looks at the door again. That same bemused smile, and he shakes his head.

“I do think your artwork is an improvement,” he says, “but you have keyed my car.”

“Maybe I could repay you?” Hawke asks in a voice that rises in pitch with every word, the shrug growing deeper, raised arms and flat hands. His laughter is deep and genuine, crossing his arms and licking his lips before looking back at her.

“How about I take you to dinner, and we use your car?” He asks.

“It’s a deal,” Hawke says as she sticks out her hand for a shake.

“My name is Fenris,” he tells her as he puts his hand out as well.


	321. Wedding (Nelaros & Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a friend, featuring their city elf warden

She wonders how much it cost. A thing of white, now stained red. Soft underneath her fingertips, tight around her ribs. The finest fabric to burden her, tangle between her legs. A flag that will not surrender, running still. If she lives, she’ll burn it. Feet beat against ground, grass and gravel, the panic bleeding in her veins, pounding in her skull. Under it, she thinks she hears laughter. The guards casually chat to one another as an arrow is pulled from a quiver. Notched, let loose. He cries out as he falls, a single strangled thing of pain. Reaching for her, hand fisting in her dress.

She turns, hair in her face, caught in her mouth. An arrow, just there, embedded in his back. Nelaros is struggling to hands and knees, and she hesitates. She hears the next one clearly. Whistling in air, the sickening thud. Blood on the grass, and she is pulling at his arm, trying to force him to stand. There isn’t time. His hand shakes, and she watches as an arrow lands in the ground beside her. That laughter again. Playing with their food, meaning to capture.

His eyes are wide, teeth gritted in pain. They must run but the arrow slices through his leg, and Nelaros is on his knees again, and he will not be fast enough. They will come, they will take. She lets go of his arm. “Indess,” he says. She stands, begins to pull herself free. A rip, a tear, and he is left with naught but a scrap of her dress in his hand. More arrows at her feet, flying past her head. Wings of macabre making, lining his spine. “Indess!” Turning, and she does not look back.

“Indess!” It rips ragged from his throat, arrows of his own making, landing, wounding, drawing blood. “Please don’t leave me,” strangled on his tongue, a choked sob follows. “Don’t leave me!” Hands clenched tightly, knuckles white, nails digging into the palm of her hands. Another yell, a furious scream. Curses that fall from his lips and she squeezes her eyes closed. In the alienage, she can still him screaming. In her dreams he calls her name.


	322. Statue (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: how about #8 from the LI scenarios list with a pairing of your choosing? (I trust you to make it Hurt.) "LI taking a fatal blow for OC."

Maybe, if he had his arm. Never, not since the first cut, had he felt its loss this keenly. The construct was acceptable, but such a different thing to feel the arrow underneath fingertips, the force behind it as he lets it fly. Maybe, if he had seen it before. Stopped him when he had the chance. A hopeless feeling as he walks the battlefield towards him, no arrow able to penetrate the barrier. Mahanon lowers the bow. There’s fighting all around him, Inquisition locked in battle. Solas stands before him, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Inquisitor,” he says.

“Dread Wolf.” The smallest quirk of a smile from Solas. Mud, underneath his feet. Blood that mixes with the earth, metal spilled upon the ground. The smell of corpses, the clash of swords. The screams, the grunts, the yells, the sobs. All of it blurs together, melts away. Mahanon’s shoulders sag, stance easing. Bow held loosely, arrow slipping from his grasp. Some old ache, a pain that shouldn’t be, throbs in a hand that doesn’t exist. “If you kill me, the Inquisition forces will pull back,” he says softly. Smile fading into a grim line, and Solas nods.

“I wish to save as many as possible. Your death is… a necessary sacrifice,” he says. Mahanon wants to laugh at that.

“I’ve always been. To you,” he says. Some troubled knot between Solas’s brows, and Mahanon can’t see the white knuckles, the way Solas’s fingers dig into his palms.

“You were an unexpected friend,” he says, “I’m sorry.” A struggle to let go, to gather the spell in the palm of his hand. Mahanon holds his bow in his hand, the construct, looks down. Sweat on his brow, stray wisps of hair stuck to his face. Green lines that haven’t faded on his neck, vallaslin on his cheeks. Moving his thumb lovingly over the snake carved into the bow. Closing his eyes, a silent apology on his lips. Solas’s hand wavers, hesitates.

In this bubble of quiet, lost together, they both don’t hear the shout, the ragged “ _no_!”

Mahanon’s eyes snap open at the hands on his shoulder, the force that drags him away. Dorian, putting himself between them. Solas steps back, but it’s too late. The spell is gone. The bow in that mud, Mahanon’s arms outstretched, catching Dorian as he stumbles forward. Both of them, tumbling to the ground. Mahanon sits, arms around him, Dorian’s face in the crook of his neck and hands wound in his tunic. Under his fingertips, Mahanon can feel the stone spreading. “ _Vhenan_ ,” he breathes, “Dorian.” Looking up at Solas, pleading, “stop it! Reverse the spell!”

“I cannot,” he says. Solas closes his eyes, unwilling to watch it happen.

“ _Amatus_ ,” a weak thing, as his breath turns to stone. That light in his eyes, dull and grey. Unmoving in his arms, as Mahanon moves a hand to his face. Cold rock, and he wishes he couldn’t feel at all. Mahanon’s tears roll down Dorian’s cheek.

“Please,” Mahanon begs Solas. A flick of his wrist and Solas is turning away, marching from the battlefield.

* * *

There’s ivy on the statue. Chipped and stained, surrounded by wildflowers and long grass. No one knows who they are, remembers what they’ve done. A touching piece, of two lovers locked in an embrace. Holding each other tightly with some sort of peace in their expressions, the quiet of being together.


	323. Hands (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: when one person in the otp takes the hand of the other and brings it to their face and presses their lips so gently against their knuckles/fingers and holds it there for a long time.

There’s a stack of books by the chair. Stacked and scattered, one has fallen underneath the bed. Pieces from Tevinter and Ferelden, Antiva and Rivain. Some of them stories and tales, most of them academic. They were meant to be read, meaning to distract. They sit untouched, unopened. A hand at his head, a thumb across his brow. An elbow pressing into the bed, taking his hand in his. Dorian presses lips to Mahanon’s knuckles, breathes against the back of his hand. The other moves from his head to his face, fingers brushing against his cheeks. Still pale, that natural warmth lost to cold.

A small blessing that he has been sleeping peacefully. The healers come by often, replacing the bandages and checking the wound. It still breaks Dorian’s heart to remember how he begged. Iron Bull, lining up the axe. Cole, holding the smoking ruin of Mahanon’s arm. Mahanon, clutching to Dorian, that pleading whisper in his ear. “Please, no,” he had said while Dorian held him tight, “please don’t do this.” The once glowing green veins that tangled around Mahanon’s neck were now fading. The ones across his back and chest were receding away. With the anchor gone, the Fade was leaving him too.

And this, the one hand for Dorian left to hold.

Those long, lithe fingers. Callouses from years of holding a bow, and how many times had Dorian watched him as Mahanon carefully carved those wooden figures? Holding the wood as he delicately and lovingly worked. A herd of little halla lines Dorian’s desk in Tevinter. How many times had Mahanon placed his hands on Dorian’s face, smiling at the feel? Fingertips that rolled down his spine, dancing affectionate against his skin. How he would thread a hand through Dorian’s hair, the other settling on his shoulder. All those small patterns of touch, lost to the past now.

A kiss, to each knuckle. Gentle and light, squeezing his hand a little tighter. Letting his cheek rest against these locked hands, as he watches Mahanon sleep. Fingers curling against his cheeks, tracing the lines of his _vallaslin_. So yes, the books remain unread. He has more important things to pay attention to. He lowers Mahanon’s hand back onto the bed as he stands, his hand slowly untangling from his. Fingertips brushing lightly over his arms as they move upwards. Bracing himself against the bed as he leans, hands pressing into the mattress, and Dorian presses a kiss to Mahanon’s forehead.

Carefully joining him in the bed, body curling against his. Resting his hand on Mahanon’s chest, head against head. Listening to the quiet of his breathing, the gentle rise and fall. Dorian closes his eyes, patiently waits for his lover to wake. He plans an escape for them – places where they won’t be needed. A moment to breathe, where they won’t be found. He wants to hear his voice again, not that echo of pleading. He needs to hear it.

“ _Vhenan_.”


	324. Trust, Part 2 (Zevran x F!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: omg I have to prompt you to continue your latest nsfw prompt that you wrote for zevwarden?  
> A continuation to [this piece](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7304044/chapters/30482706), also NSFW.

“Now,” Zevran says. She bites her lip – she knows that voice. Low and husky, and she shifts from one foot to another. “We are going to fuck.” His hand tangled in her hair, giving it a light tug. The other, following the curve of her, over rib and settling at her hip. “You are going to cum.” Cupping her ass, giving it a light squeeze. Moving to her cunt, fingertips over the smoothness of it, running a single finger through wet folds. “And then you will apologize.” Again, that teasing finger, testing the wet of her. “Yes?” She shifts backwards, subtly grinds herself against his cock.

“Yes,” she breathes. A smile at her answer, and he pulls at the lacings of his trousers. A sigh of relief as he frees himself, moves against her. Sliding between her thighs, against her cunt, as he leans over her. Hand slipping from her hair as he takes the time to explore her body. At her hip, her thighs, pressing at her clit. Her hands tighten into fists, a sharp inhale. Her eyes close as she feels him move against her.

Leaning back as he takes himself in hand, aligns the head of his cock with the entrance of her cunt. He wastes no time, buries himself to the hilt. Her footing stutters, bracing against the counter, and she knocks over the bucket of water beside them. It spills across the floor, but neither of them pay it no mind. Not as Zevran takes a firm hold of her hips, starts to fuck her properly. He finds the rhythm quickly, the thrusts she likes the best. She can’t help the moan that slips from her mouth, and she’s pushing palms against the counter, raising herself up.

A hand leaves her hip, slips underneath her tunic. Taking her breast in his hand, flicking a thumb over her nipple. Teasing it between her fingers as he puts his mouth against her shoulder. The smallest bite, just enough to make her groan. “Bed,” is all she can manage to say. A sudden loss, as he slips from her. Turning her around, hands at her thighs, lifting her up into his arms. Wrapping her arms around his neck as he carries her, kissing him deeply. Through the doorway, and it’s not hard to find. He eases her gently onto the bed, watching as she moves to lie properly.

Raising her eyebrow at him, shifting her gaze from his face to his cock. Dripping with pre-cum, slick with her wet. Licking her lips, raising her eyes back to him. She opens her legs. A wicked grin, and Zevran is moving between them, hot breath running over her cunt. She gasps at the sensation, her hands winding into the sheets. He presses kisses to her inner thigh, sucking and nipping, leaving marks on his territory. He savors the sight of her needing him so badly. Her hips twist towards him, a silent plea. He concedes, and runs his tongue over that sensitive nub of flesh. Her hips snap as if shocked by lightning, and one of her hands moves from the sheet to his hair.

He laps at the sweet wetness of her cunt. His tongue splits her folds and teases at her entrance. She moans at that, feeling gentle pressure, and her grip on him is insistent, her hips constantly rolling now to fuck his mouth. Zevran locks his lips over her clit before he slips a finger inside of her, and the heels of her feet press against his back.

He breaks away from her suddenly, and she makes a strangled noise. He wipes the wet on his mouth away with a swipe of his arm. Bruising hands on her hips, and she takes him in hand, guides him towards her entrance. He takes his time with this, feeling her cunt accept every bit of him. She is tight and warm, and she shakes and moans at his intrusion. “Ah yes, Zev, fuck me.” He needs no further permission, thrusts deeply. Again, and again, without faltering.

He drops down to his elbows, his toes pressing into the bed as he continues to pound inside of her. They rut like animals, both of their hips moving to meet each other, clinging to him as he grunts into her collarbone. Opening his mouth to leave a mark upon her neck, kissing the red of it. In one swift movement, she pushes him to lie on the bed beneath her. That small quirk of her brows again, before lowering herself onto his cock. She takes a breast in her hand, rolling it in her palm, while the other is behind her, steadying herself with a grip on his knee.

From this angle he can see everything, the way her chest heaves and the way she slides so sinfully over his cock. He can see it disappearing inside of her, and he cannot help the hand that moves to press at her exposed clit. She lets out a surprised gasp at the touch, and she makes it clear that it is not un-welcome.

It is the hand on his knee that tells him she is close, her grip on him tightening. With that knowledge, he moves her, flipping her to be on her hands and knees. He aligns himself again, appreciating the way her back arches in this position, and grasps her hips as he burrows inside of her. Skin slaps against skin, and he can see her breasts swaying under her. Her hands are fisted into the sheets of the bed, and she is moaning out a medley of desperate words. The most important being “yes”, “Zev”, and “come”.

Her rhythm fails her when her orgasm rips through her, hips stuttering out an uneven pattern as the walls of her cunt tighten around his cock. Close, too close. He pulls his cock from her, wrapping his hand around himself. It only takes two quick pumps before he spills his seed on the bed below her. They collapse together, Zevran peppering her shoulder with kisses. “ _Amor_ ,” he says softly as she smiles.


	325. Missing Sleep (Cullen x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: i just have the best mental pictures, like the one of the inquisitor trudging up to her quarters after being god knows where, and seeing a massive lump in her bed and initially being liek "what the fuck" until she sees familiar furs poking out and then is liek "...that's fucking adorable" and being liek "i'm glad you miss me when i'm gone but if you don't make room so i can pass out we're having words" and he's liek "THANK GOD. I CAN SLEEP."

Somehow easier, with her. Easier to be lured to bed, quicker to fall asleep. A peaceful thing, to be at her back. Quiet in his mind, in his dreams. Cullen turns in the bed, his hand over where she is meant to be. Cold sheets, empty space. Sighing as he rolls back, an arm over his eyes. He’s always appreciated the hole in the roof. Mountain air that seems to soothe his migraines, stars that make him feel a little less alone. With a frustrated grunt, he sits up, pushes himself away from the bed. Another night spent at his desk, candle burning low, pouring over reports.

Half asleep on his feet in the morning, and he knows he is not at his best. Knows he can’t go on like this. When night comes once again, Skyhold quiet, Cullen leaves his office. Footsteps that echo in the emptiness of the Great Hall, stairs that creak as he climbs them. Her quarters seem almost paused in time. Papers on her desk, bed still unmade from when she left. Cullen kicks off his boots as he walks, falls face first into the bed. Hugging blankets and pillows to himself, breathing in her scent.

The door, creaked open. They hadn’t expected to return until tomorrow. She pushes open the door, makes her way up the stairs, into her quarters. Blankets bunched and under them, something else. Smiling as she runs a hand through the fur of his cloak. “Cullen,” she says softly. He’s always been a light sleeper, but tonight, he grumbles in dreaming and does not wake. Knees on the bed, half on top of him, pressing kisses to his cheek. Stubble against her face, and she smiles as she hears his breathing quicken, sees his eyes slowly open.

“I’m happy you’re here, but I’d like to get into my bed too please,” she says. She doesn’t miss the flash of delight across his face, the contented smile. Opening his arms to her, allowing her to fall into them. Familiar warmth, the smell of her mixed with that of the wilds, of the horses. He doesn’t mind. Curling himself around her, falling back asleep in an instant. She runs her hands through his hair, kisses the crown of his head.


	326. Constellations (Fenris x F!Hawke) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: could you write a nsfw fenhawke drabble 

Constellations, a pattern of stars, the freckles on her shoulder. Tracing them with careful fingertips, and perhaps he is unworthy. To touch, to feel, to be with her. She turns, and with a smile, she sweeps away all his doubts. She brushes back the strands of hair that stray across his face, tucks them behind his ear. Tracing the shell of it, following the line of his jaw. Giving his chin a playful tap before she leans in, kisses the tip of his nose. Settling beside him, her face so near to his, and her smile only grows. “Hello,” she says as her hand rests on his face, a thumb affectionately brushing across his cheekbones.

“Hello,” Fenris returns quietly. Circles on her shoulder, a line down her arm. A touch that dances across her ribs, settles on her hip. Pulling himself even closer, legs that tangle together. Nose against nose, and how can the blue of her eyes be even brighter than the fire? Freckles dusted across her cheek, ones he’s counted time and time again. He knows them better than the palm of his hand, lost in the galaxy of Hawke. Touching forehead against forehead, and he closes his eyes, matches his breathing to hers.

She’s never truly believed in the Maker. Too many things that have happened without reason. But here he lies, warm under her touch, and she thanks every god, every star. All the things that needed to happen to have him here, too many wild coincidences, and it must be nothing less than fate. She’s always sought out the adventure in stories, the mystery and intrigue, but now her thoughts run a loop of the most romantic clichés. Still smiling as she tilts her head forward, presses her lips against his. He is natural heat, sand under desert sun, but still her oasis.

Hands settling on his back, clipped wings and shoulder blades, as he moves to stretch out over her. Elbows pressing into the bed, his hair mixing into hers. The right contrast, a perfect compliment. A strand of hair between his fingers, kissing the rich darkness of it. He has such long lashes. A freckle on his chin. Eyes like fields of long grass, underneath a gentle breeze. An intensity underneath it, loving in his gaze, winding his hand in her hair as he rests his weight against her, seeks her kiss.

Tapping touch down his spine, feeling the way the muscles of his back move against her. Her bottom lip caught between his, tongue gentle and explorative, wet against hers. There’s always some contented growl at the back of his throat, a thing of pleasure and desire. Her legs move against his, wrap around his waist. Relinquishing their hold as Fenris moves, a kiss to her neck, and a bite to her collarbone. Hungry in the conquest of her, but it never hurts. Moving to his knees, and the moonlight shines on his face, reflects in his hair. A blush on her face, the flush in her chest.

A hand that moves between them, a thumb that circles her clit. Watching as her head tilts to the side, as her eyes close and the groan builds. Legs shifting, feet pressing into the bed. The growing wet, a finger that slips inside of her. She always tastes like strawberries. Taking himself in hand, aligning his cock with her entrance. Slow as he pushes inside her, as he leans back over her, as she runs a hand through his hair. Gasping when he’s buried all the way to the hilt, the heels of her feet pressing against his ass. Capturing her mouth with the kiss, swallowing her breath.

Hands fluttering on his back as he begins to move, rocking slowly together. His head beside hers, her mouth on his shoulder. Wrapping arms around him, holding him tightly through each deep thrust. Gasping at the tightness of it, the wet heat of her, moving his arms underneath her. Holding her shoulders, fingers bruising into flesh. Breathing against him, and he can hear every hitch of it, the muted groans and stuttered moans, feel teeth against his flesh. Her toes curl as she holds him inside of her, as he grinds against her, pausing in the rhythm of it all before quickening the pace.

She shudders, shivers, with it, gasping and eyes squeezing closed. Fingers curling against his back, tight fists, legs locked around him. Finding the breathing again, matching hers, and so easily he can cum with her. Cunt clenching, waves of pleasure, her back arching. Gritting his teeth together but still the rumbling grunt slips through as his cock pulses, spills his seed inside of her. Letting his weight fall as she holds him close, kisses his cheek. “Hawke,” he mumbles against the pillow.

“Fenris,” she says with a smile.

“I love you,” he says. That little squeeze, the tighter hug.

“I love you too,” she says.


	327. Hair (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: angsty handers??pls??

Golden spun thread, the finest silk. Slipping through her fingers, falling from her grasp. The ribbon tied around her wrist, hair falling free around his face. Standing at his back as he sits on the chair, tilting his head back to look at her. A chuckle as she holds his face in her hands, leaning over to press a kiss to his forehead. She loves his hair. He reaches up, wrapping a hand around her wrist and smiling peacefully. His thumb brushes against her affectionately, wearing small circles into her skin. Standing straight once again, and he holds himself still.

The scissors in her hand, that lock of hair between her fingers. It seems almost a shame to cut it. Falling loose, falling to the floor, those golden threads turning in air. Hawke works quickly, she works quietly. He has his eyes closed, listening to the sound of the scissors, metal against metal, and the absentminded way she hums under her breath. She loves his hair. Darktown is different when he’s with her, unable to hear the grind of it, unable to feel the danger of it. Standing when she’s done, untangling the towel from around his neck.

She sweeps up around him, knocks the broom against his boots. Laughing as Anders chases her, giving in as he wraps arms around her waist. Spinning her around, peppering kisses against her cheek. A hand on his face, trying to push him away, telling him that his stubble tickles. She undoes the knot of the ribbon, helps him put it back in his hair. That small ponytail, those little strands by his face, and she loves his hair. The sun sets on Darktown, and she holds out her hand toward him. They walk home together, side by side and hand in hand.

Golden spun thread, the finest silk. Untying the knot, clenching the ribbon in her fist. Standing at his back while he sits before her. Twisting a lock between her fingers, and the city burns around them. She stands straight, she stands tall, and her spine aches from the act of it. She wants to collapse, rest her head on his knees, and let him whisper those words she’s heard ten thousand times before. The smoke, the screams, the knife in her hand. She loves his hair.


	328. Protective (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Fenris feeling protective of hawke? Or hawke feeling protective of fenris?

The knock is insistent, loud and violent. Bodahn wipes his hands on the apron as he leaves the kitchen, muttering obscenities under his breath as he hurries towards the door. “Yes, yes,” he says as enters the foyer, hand outstretched and reaching for the locks. Twisting the handle, and the door immediately slams out of his grasp. “Now, excuse me -” Stopped midsentence, the handle of the axe finding his head. They walk over him as they step inside the estate. It must have been the slam that caught her attention, Hawke rushing out of her room, hands on the bannister. Teeth gritted as she sees the unwelcome guests, vaults over the railing.

Sandal standing in the kitchen doorway, eyes wide. “Go get help,” Hawke tells him calmly.

“Enchantment,” a soft affirmation, turning and running to leave out the back door. It takes the barest extension of her magic to reach out, to check to be sure that Bodahn was alright. Facing the handful of dwarves that make a half-circle around her. The fire burns around her fists, harmlessly licks off her sleeve. Sizzling on the floor, and fury on her face.

“Blood of the Hawke,” one of the dwarves says. Baring their weapons, swords and hammers, wearing armor with no discernable symbol. No mercenary tattoos, nothing to mark them, no way to know who sent them.

“Blood for blood,” says another. Those are the only two sentences they speak, repeating back and forth, a thing that makes sense only to them. “Right,” Hawke says, “let’s not waste any more time, shall we?” Mr. Barks is snarling beside her legs, barking at those who dare approach.

Dare approach, they do.

A flick of her wrist, the wave of magic to push them back. Barks races forward, claws and teeth biting into leather armor. Hawke is careful to weave the magic around him, sparks of lightning that barely seem to faze them. She’s always hated how resistant the dwarves are to magic. The fire, they brush off. The ice, they stamp through. Pulling and pushing, the most she can do is hold them back but even Barks won’t be able to handle them himself. She grabs the lute beside the desk, swings it forward, shattering it against a dwarfs helmet.

It stuns him for a moment, rattles him, enough for Hawke to put her hands on him. The hair on her arms, at the back of her neck, rises as much as the magic does. The dwarf shakes as the magic wreaks havoc inside him, mouth opening in shock, little bolts of electricity running between his lips. He falls a smoking lump, and Hawke turns in time to catch the axe with her hands. The barrier can only do so much, and the dwarf licks his lips as metal slices skin. Hawke shouts as she tries to push back, the force of her magic behind it.

Another stomps a boot into the back of her leg, sending her to her knees, interrupting the cast. “Blood for blood,” the dwarf whispers. One has his throat torn out, the work of Barks, the other a fried mess. Still the one with the axe, the one at her back, and the one circling a wounded Barks. “Blood of the Hawke.” Dripping from her fingers, cutting into her palms. Turning her head to see the one behind raising the hilt of his axe. Ready for the blow, but it doesn’t land. Fenris rushes swiftly through, lightning on two feet, the ghost of lyrium reflecting all around him.

From one to the next, raising his sword and finding them no match. Hawke cries out as the dwarf rips the axe from her, leaving her on her knees with hands shaking in front of her. For this one, he plunges his hand through its chest. Barks bounds around Fenris’s feet, happy to see him despite the blood on his teeth. For his part, Fenris drops his sword, goes to his knees in front of Hawke. Taking her hands in his, pressing his palms over hers, and trying to stop the bleeding. “Sandal is looking for Anders,” he tells her. “Are you alright?”

A sigh of relief escapes her as she rests her head on his shoulder. Quiet as he lets her rest there, hands held between them. “I’m glad you came. I’m glad you’re here,” she says. Blood sticky between his fingers, but he doesn’t let go. Stained and signed, cut and cauterized. Helping her stand, guiding her to the kitchen. She sits on the table while he takes the freshly washed towels. Dipping one in water, and standing before her. Facing her, and she holds out her hands for him. She flinches when the cold touches her, and how can he be so gentle? Cleaning them carefully, wiping away the blood, wrapping her hands with a dry towel. Reluctant to let his touch leave her, his hands loose around her wrists.

“Are you alright?” He repeats, to a single nod. He stands close to her, her legs against his, and his thumb wears affectionate circles into her skin. “If it is alright with you, I will stay.” There’s only the slightest hesitation in his question, the fear she might say no. She guesses that even if she did, he would haunt her doorstep. He hadn’t set foot inside the estate since that night, but here he came without pause to her defense. He holds her gaze, does not drop his.

“Please stay,” she says. Another single nod, and he gives his own sigh of relief. She closes her eyes as he rests his forehead against hers. Matching her breathing with his, letting the fight leave her. Safe now, with him so near.


	329. After All These Years (Zevran x F!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you do two prompts in one? Angry kiss and “it just hurts, i guess. that you still mean a lot to me” for Warden x Zev? Maybe a smutty post-argument kinda thing

She’s leaning against the desk, her arms crossed and her legs the same. Foot over foot, arm over arm. Shoulders stiff and back straight, an easy frown on her face as she watches him pace back and forth. The argument has been through letters. The first was barely half a page, ripped parchment. He had read it in disbelief and knew he had been too long gone hunting Crows. The reply was pages upon pages, a response for her every word. Back and forth, until he found his way back to her. She had guessed he might return, but not quite this soon. It delays her leaving, complicates the act of it.

Zevran stops midstride, turns towards her. Closing the distance between them, his palms on the desk as he leans into her space. “I am coming with you,” he tells her.

“No,” she says. Keeping her stance steady, raising her chin in defiance. Others might not see it but she, she knows him too well. The quick quirk in his brow, the subtle grit of his teeth. The hardened gaze, and maybe she’s been a coward. Letters instead of proper words, hoping to avoid this. The hurt behind the irritation, the longing in his look. She forces herself to face him.

“You would not have bothered telling me about it if you did not truly want me to come,” he says with a cocky grin. She rolls her eyes.

“It was a courtesy, not an invitation,” she says. “You can stay here while I’m gone, but you’re not coming with me and that’s final _mmph_ –” Startled as he surges forward, captures her mouth with his. Pulling her bottom lip between his teeth, tongue taking advantage of her surprise. Her stance broken, feet planted, and a hand snaps upwards, wraps around his throat and pushes him away. “I thought we were talking about this.”

“We are,” he tells her, held at her mercy. Her eyes narrow as her fingers press against his throat. He thinks he sees a smile before the world spins, turns, slamming him against the desk. It screeches across the floor against his weight, sending papers and bottles to the floor. That hand still around his throat as she licks her lips, slides up tightly against him. Running her tongue down the shell of his ear, listening to him wince as she bites down on his earlobe. Wrapping a hand around her wrist, swiftly turning, bending her over the desk with her arm behind her back.

With his free hand Zevran reaches underneath her, feeling the weight of her breast. Rolling it underneath his palm, feeling her hips wriggle against his. “I told you once I would storm the Dark City for you,” he says in a low voice, “that has not changed.” Feet firmly planted, and she shoves backwards, surprise him, sending him stumbling. She pounces, pulling him to the floor and pinning him there, straddling him and holding his hands down with hers.

“This is too dangerous,” she says. Beginning to roll her hips, grinding against him. He’s been half-hard since the kiss, and this only makes him ache. Straining against her, moving his hips upwards to meet hers. Her face is flushed as she bites her bottom lip, hair free from its loose bun, falling around her face, against his. She’s still as beautiful as the day he first saw her. Maybe even more now. The world has not been kind to them, but together, they have made it bend to their will.

“I will not let you do this alone,” he says as he breaks free from her grasp, wrapping an arm around her waist and deftly flipping them. Her legs lock around him, her hands beside her head, as she scoffs disbelief.

“ _Let_ me?” She wanted to help him bring down the Crows. Being a Warden has always hindered her want. Do this. Do that. The Warden. The Hero of Ferelden. She’s never cared about titles. She misses the nights spent in that fucking tent with the hole on the left side, talking until far too late about everything and nothing. All the places they would see, all the things they would do. Never once did she think she’d look back on those days and think they were the only ones when they were truly free. Being Warden Commander was a burden, not a privilege.

“This is the one thing I ask of you,” he says.

“I recall you asking me not to kill you,” she mumbles against his mouth. The kiss is hard, full of force, a desperate need she doesn’t know how to voice. He returns it in full, wet and warm, a language on his tongue full of things he can’t say. She reaches between them, finds the lacings of his breeches. Untying the knot, reaching inside. He groans at the freedom of it, at her hand wrapped around him. Her other hand at his hip and reaching further, around his ass and pulling him harder against him. She strokes him in full, from the base to the head, and how he has missed this.

Those nights away from her, thinking only of her. Those dark places in dark cities, unsure of his own safety, taking those precious few moments to himself. Nothing feels the way she does, his own hand cannot match hers. Her thumb swipes over the head of him, finds those few precious drops of pre-cum, smearing it down the underside of his shaft. Breaking away from her lips to cover her throat in kisses, to bite down hard, her hand squeezing tight around him. He kisses the mark he makes on her neck, before leaning back.

She lets her legs go limp so that he may tear off her trousers, running his hands from ankles to thighs. Bruising into her hips, leaning forward in hunger. “If you do not take me with you, I shall die,” he announces. Her foot finds his chest, pushes hard. He goes stumbling back, landing with his back against the wall.

“So dramatic,” she says. She walks towards him, running a hand through his hair before she crouches down. He raises his knees and a hand squeezes on his shoulder. Reaching underneath her, finding his cock and holding it steady. She closes her eyes as she lowers herself, leaning back against his knees as his cock is swallowed by her cunt. Tight, pulsing around him, inch by desperate inch. His hands slip underneath her shirt against the warmth of her skin, moving upwards to pinch her nipple. Her eyes snap open, and she leans forward to kiss him.

Light, fluttering things, over and over, deepening with each one. A hand winds in his hair, tugs roughly and his hand spasms around her breast. Rolling her hips before she begins to move in earnest, a breakneck pace, bouncing up and down on his cock. A challenge, daring him to cum. “You will miss me if you leave me behind,” he grunts, “you need me.” She levels her gaze with his. Hands linking behind his head, elbows resting on his shoulders as they fuck. Pinching her nipple, the other hand slipping down to tighten around her hip.

“ _You_ need _me_ ,” she says.

“I don’t deny it,” he tells her. For the first time in this argument, she wears a troubled frown. “I need you _mi amore_ , my Warden, my love, I am yours, always, always.” A hand untangling itself from behind him, and she covers his mouth. Forehead against forehead, closing her eyes as she rides him. They’ve made love. They’ve had sex. This is pure fucking, a primal urge, a fight, a dialogue, a plea, a beg.

“Not fair,” she’s whispering, repeating it over and over again under her breath. “Not fair, not fair. Zevran.” She kisses the back of her hand, where his lips lie just underneath. “Cum for me. Cum inside me.” It doesn’t take him long. Closing his eyes, letting go. His cock spasms with it, spurting desperate seed. Far too long without her, far, far too long. She leans back against his knees once again, face still flushed, lets her hand fall back to her side. He reaches up, tucks hair behind her ears. Fingers curl against her cheek, and he smiles.

“Let me come with you,” he says. She reaches up as well, putting her hand over his. Closing her eyes. Long moments of silence before she slowly nods.


	330. Circles (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: f!fenhawke - one day the templars come by and arrest hawke and drag her off to the circle, fenris being present when it happens (both are already in an established relationship together)

He feels her behind him, arms wrapping around his waist. A hand that wraps around the top of his breastplate, her mouth against his shoulder. “Fenris, it’s okay,” she says. Closing her eyes as she holds him tightly, breathes him in. Summer sand, sun in the snow. The strongest oak. Speaking by the fire, threading fingers through his hair as he reads. She pretends as though she isn’t trembling, acts as if she isn’t scared. If the Templars could see what he could do – would they take him too? They would put him in _chains_. She made a promise once. He would never be hunted again. She means to keep it.

“Put the sword down,” one says but Fenris only holds it tighter. They’ve sent far more than they need. They fill the foyer, the front hall. Flaming swords emblazoned on their chests, and she feels the subtle denial. The constant cleansing like waves, snuffing out her magic before she can even call it completely. She would be useless here, and he cannot fight them alone. Holding him close, all the tense, strained, aching muscle of him. The nervous edge, choked restraint. Opening her eyes, looking over his shoulder, seeing Meredith’s smile spread.

Hawke slowly lets go of him, steps around him. A hand on his chest, keeping him behind her. “Fenris,” she says again, “it’s okay.” His gaze slowly shifts from them, to her. Her smile wavers, his expression does not change at all. To those that surround them, they may only see his anger. For her, she feels his fear echo hers. Her hand slowly falling away from him, and he catches it in his. Winding fingers together, and stepping forward.

“No. I will not let them take you,” he tells her.

“You don’t have a choice,” Meredith says with a wave of her hand. Templars with talons that bite into her shoulders, drag her backwards, force them apart. Fenris takes one step forward, and ten swords raise to his throat. Forcing her to her knees, her mouth open. The magebane is bitter, sulfur on her tongue, and there’s a gauntlet over her mouth to keep her from spitting it out. Meredith moves to stand before her, leans over the Champion. “Your time is _done_ , apostate.”

Fenris swings forward, and the Templars immediately close ranks. Hawke is dragged to her feet. They are pulling her away while she struggles, kicking and screaming, watching helplessly as Fenris fights. Listening to metal clash against metal and Meredith might be laughing. Hawke is calling his name as they pull her from the room, as they take her to the Circle. Alone in her cell, the collar around her neck, she cries and wonders if he lives.


	331. Flowers and Books (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 30 for fenris and f!Hawke please! :D ("beautiful")

She’s crouched down in front of the flowers, fingertips on petals, closing her eyes and breathing them in. She wasn’t there when he went to the back, and now he stops just behind the counter, his arms filled with fresh rolls of paper. He puts them down carefully, but she hears him anyway. Turning her head, opening her eyes, a smile on her face. Brushing her hands off on her pants as she stands, makes her way to him. Separated by the counter, and she’s extending her hand over it. “You must be Fenris. The others have told me about you,” she says. He raises an eyebrow as he takes it, returns the shake.

“The others?” He echoes. She chuckles under her breath as she crosses her arms, raises a hand to cover the laugh.

“Sorry, my new neighbors.” She gestures over her shoulder, “I’m moving in. I’m the owner.” Out of the large glass windows covered in hanging plants, vines and blooms, and across the street. The once dark store now with lights on, tidied and neat. Someone’s on a ladder hammering letters above the door. A bookstore. She’s reaching into her pocket, taking out a bent business card and sliding it across the counter. “Come and visit one day. If you like.” Another smile, the smallest wave. Walking away, and the door chimes as it opens. A pause, just there, letting in the noise of cars that rush past, construction down the street. Looking over her shoulder, and blue eyes glitter.

“Your flowers are beautiful,” she tells him. Another chime as the door closes behind her. He watches as she looks both ways before racing across the street. Chatting amicably with the person on the ladder, opening the door to her store. Blurred through the window still being cleaned, but he can see her tuck raven hair behind her ear as she reaches for a stack of books. He reaches for the card, runs a thumb over the lettering. The slightest smile that quirks on the edges of his lips, a short exhale as he shakes his head, puts the card on the register.

A sundress, patterned with pineapples. Sneakers, tattered and worn. Hawke is in his shop again, at the plants by the entrance. Leaning closer to look at ivy and palms, spider plants and succulents, bromeliads and Christmas cactus. “May I help you?” Fenris asks as he moves to stand beside her. Hawke seems almost startled by his sudden presence, but the smile comes quick enough.

“I need some green,” she says, “I’m being overwhelmed by paper.”

He flips the sign to _closed_ , picks up the box he’s packed for her. She’s carrying one of her own, standing on the sidewalk and waiting for him. They cross the street together, and she holds open the door for him. Not just new editions, but old ones as well. Antique – leather and worn – the scent of older parchment. It’s warm, stacked to the brim, with comfortable chair and low lighting. It’s cozy. He settles the box on the counter, as she does the same. “Is there anything you like to read?” She asks as she takes one of the aloes, settles it on top of a stack.

He walks back across the street with his arms filled to the brim with books. Putting them down to turn that sign back to _open_ , quickly moving back to them. All borrowed, but he could take his time with them. At least, that’s what Hawke told him. Running a finger down their spine, gold flaked lettering, and pages marked with notes from school-boy a hundred years gone. Treasures that she’s trusted him with. It becomes an exchange. He brings her the odd plants, she refills his reading. Across the street, and back again, some days she brings him coffee, other days he makes her tea.

It becomes too cold for sundresses, but she wears them anyway, shivering in his shop as she slides a book towards him. “It took forever to get my hands on this,” she says, “limited edition. I wanted you to be the first to read it.” His hand brushes against hers as he takes it. Smiling as he flips through the pages, looking up to thank her. Her cheeks are pink with cold, dusted with lightest freckles.

“Thank you Hawke,” he says. Her card still sits above the register. “It’s beautiful.” She smiles, and he’s not sure if he’s talking about the book.  


	332. Boots (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Would you write hawke forcing fenris to just wear some frickin boots in the winter because it’s cold damn it and I worry about his cold little feet

“No.” He blinks in the doorway, as Hawke crosses her arms. “You are not stepping one foot outside without boots,” she says. Fenris looks down at the snow at the threshold, the light dusting of it on her shoulders and in her hair. The sword slung on his back, breastplate and gauntlets, and he’s ready to go but for the Hawke that bars his way.

“I don’t own boots,” he tells her. Her eyebrows shoot practically skyward.

“Then I’ll get you some,” she says. “What size are you?” His silence is answer enough. She tracks wet footprints into the mansion as she barrels inside, points to a chair. He lets the sword rest against the wall, takes a seat.

“I’m going to touch your feet, is that alright?” she asks as she kneels down before him. His hands grip the edges of the chair as he slowly nods. She’s gentle with her touch, at his ankle and at his heel, speaking under her breath to herself. From the pouch around her waist she brings forth a quill and a small capped inkwell and he struggles to hold back the sputtering laughter. Varric had been wondering where those had gone. She rolls up her sleeve as she places his foot on her knee. Measuring with her fingers, scrawling down notes on the back of her hand. Looking up at him so fast that strands of her hair fall from behind her ear, cast across her face.

“I’ll run to the cobbler very quickly and see if they have a pair right away, but if not, we might have to get them made,” she says.

“How much will it cost?” He asks as he carefully raises his foot, sets it back on the floor.

“Don’t worry about that,” she says.

“Hawke, I –”

“I’ll be back very soon. Don’t you dare step outside!” Hawke is on her feet, running to the door, slamming it behind her. Fenris sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. She’s true to her word, face flushed with cold and the effort of running. He steps aside as he lets her in.

“They had a pair you can use for now, but I’m also having some made for you. To suit you better. Oh! And I got you socks!” She holds out socks in one hand, boots in the other. Brown leather, lined with fur, and he takes it all very carefully.

“How much do I owe you?” He asks.

“Don’t be silly Fenris. I can’t ask you on jobs and then have your toes fall off,” she tells him. Fenris gives her a skeptical glance, makes a mental note to save coin to pay back the debt. She reaches out, puts a hand on his wrist. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s a gift. You don’t need to pay me back.” The smile spreads wide across her face, as she gives his wrist a small squeeze before her hand falls.

“I – Thank you. Hawke. For the boots. And the socks,” he says. “Try them on!” She says excitedly.

“The brown is going to clash so _badly_ and I want to see exactly how bad.” He chuckles under his breath as he allows her to push him towards a chair.


	333. Better (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: f!fenhawke prompt - Fenris' thoughts and feels in the face of Hawke's rejection "whatever happened it was a long time ago" after he attempts to rekindle the romance following the "Alone" quest. Also her thoughts given her rejection was based on concern that he'd become too invested in her (she's someone who's not afraid to "leap" into the abyss") and it would ruin his chance to build himself as a free man, especially after being so dependent on Danarius.

He deserves better. His words are so thoughtfully chosen, so plainly spoken. She believed once, that they would be good for each other. She knows better now. She is meant to rise and fall, and one day, she will drag him down with her. He deserves better. The fire so softly reflects against his face, in his hair, on his skin. Cherished heat, a warmth she’ll never forget. He steps forward, reaches out towards her. An offer she cannot accept.

Standing together, and she puts a hand on his chest. It stops him from coming any closer, but his hands still linger at her arms, fingertips against her skin. She looks at the hard edges of his breastplate, the scuffs and scrapes from the many battles they’ve fought together. Hawke looks at it because it’s easier than looking at him. She thinks if she sees his face, the wrong words will form in her mouth, regretful words on her tongue. It doesn’t make what she’s about to say any better, any less painful. “Whatever happened between us,” she says softly, “it was a long time ago.”

His body goes stiff, rigid, unmoving. There’s silence ringing in his ears, sand that grates against his spine. She knows he won’t understand. The hand on his chest shifts, moves upwards, a thumb that traces the line of his jaw and settles on his face. The other, at his shoulder, bracing her as she leans forward. She closes her eyes. The kiss against his cheek is soft, not unloving, a firm farewell. “I’m sorry Fenris,” she says as she turns away. Wrapping arms around herself as she forces herself to walk. Shoulders hunched, staring at the floor. Step after step and a walk turns into a run, fleeing out his door. She leaves him standing by the fire, still reaching for her.

As though it could be any different.

He sits slowly. Elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. How much hope had he rested on her shoulders? It was unfair of him. Letting his hands slowly fall from his face. Reaching for the red wrapped around his wrist, undoing the knot. Holding it between his fingers, the soft affection of it. He had carried it not unlike a torch, a beacon on the darkest days. He should never have left, that first time. They could have grown together, instead they grew apart. A void, where Hawke could be, where she _should_ be but no – no. He doesn’t question Hawke’s decision. After all, she deserves better.


	334. Ma Halani (Zevran x F!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: We're in public, you know ;) for Zevran x Warden ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

He finds her in the gardens behind the estate, barefoot amongst cabbages and pumpkins, hidden behind rows of corn. Gorgeous under moonlight, and he knows she hears the darkspawn song like an echo. The horde isn’t far. The crops will be cinders and ash come tomorrow. Arms crossed, staring at the stars, and she looks over her shoulder when she hears him. Closing her eyes at his hands on her shoulders, sliding down her arms. Moving that loose braid to the side, kissing the nape of her neck. She leans against him as he wraps his arms around her. “Did I make the right decision?” She asks it quietly.

Zevran presses his mouth against her shoulder, closes his eyes as well. He wants to turn her, shake her, tell her that _yes_ , yes it was the right decision. They barely deserved her in life, they did not deserve her death. Denerim may burn, but he would find a way to be sure they do not burn with it. “Do you think it selfish of me to say yes?” he says. Opening his eyes as he feels her hold herself a little tighter, fingertips digging into skin. A deep breath, a deeper sigh, and she turns to face him. Holding his face in her hands and she doesn’t know how to tell him.

“Then I’m selfish too,” she says. In the moment, she thought of herself. He reaches upwards, hands light around her wrists, and allows her to study him. He had come to her wanting to die and now she could not imagine her life without him by her side. She doesn’t need to wonder to know he feels the same. Fingers curling at his cheeks, tracing the tattoo over brow and temple, all the delicate lines of him. Brushing back that stray lock of hair behind his ears, and he smiles as he leans forward.

Pulling her close, hand at her hip and splayed on her back, the kiss is rough but not unkind. Wrapping her arms around his neck, threading a hand through his hair. The air that she breathes, inhaling into his lungs. Pulling her bottom lip between his teeth, tongue wet and warm, taking advantage of the opening. Folding into each other desperately, swaying back and forth in the dirt and in the mud, in the silence of the city and he moans into the kiss. “Amor,” a whisper, repeated over and over again, in every breath and on his lips.

A gasp as they pull apart, as she reaches between them, fingers in the lacing of his trousers. Forehead pressing against forehead, his hand bruising into hip as the other is gentle at her breast. Feeling the weight of it in his hand, rolling it underneath his palm. Pinching a nipple between his fingers, and a sigh of relief as she takes him into her hand. This is not private by any means, this garden, but too many are preoccupied with the looming threat. They are preoccupied with each other. A language of limbs, of give and take, speaking all the things they cannot say.

Pushing him down to the ground, and the earth is cold against his back through his tunic. She remains standing only briefly, quickly shoving down the leg of one of her pants, falling to her knees above him. Leaning over him, a palm pressed into the dirt, her hair all about them. Reaching up, grabbing a handful of it, and pulling her down to him. A quicker thing, a kiss on top of the kiss, reaching between her legs to run a fingertip through wet folds. Teasing the clit of her, watching her bite her bottom lip. Eyes half lidded, tilting her head back and staring at the stars once more.

He pushes himself upwards to sit, so that she may rest against him. Knees bent, boots digging into the earth. Putting a hand on his shoulder, the other aligning the head of his cock with her cunt. Slowly moving herself down upon him, and he wraps his mouth around her neck. Biting and sucking at the skin, kissing the mark he makes. Breathing against her collarbone as she swallows him with such tight, wet, heat, fist into dirt, the other hand tightening at her back. Leaning against him completely, arms draped over his shoulders. She smells blue and soft, blueberries and silk.

Raking teeth across her chest as she begins to move, his hips thrusting upwards to meet hers. Death seemed to want to claim her at every corner – from the mirror to Deep Roads, deeper forests, city to city and ending here. All he wants is to live with her. It doesn’t matter where, it doesn’t matter how, as long as he is at her side it is enough. Her arms tighten around him, and he runs a finger down her spine as she straightens, as she holds his face in her hands once again. “Zevran,” she says hoarsely. “ _Ma halani_.” She doesn’t speak Dalish often, and here it stutters, even as her pace quickens, as her chin wavers and the tears spill down her cheeks. “Help me.” Throwing back her head, squeezing her eyes closed, hands trembling on his cheeks.

He wraps his arms around her, kisses to her collarbone. Never once had she faltered. He envied her, for her endless strength. He has borrowed from it, drank from it, found some sort of tranquility inside it. He is more than willing, more than happy, to lend her his own. Flipping them effortlessly, and she wraps her legs around his waist, keeps him inside of her. Her arms cross across her face, but he gently pulls them apart, so he can see her. Letting his weight fall on her softly, slowly moving his hips to press deeper inside. “ _Mi amor_. My Warden. My Mahariel,” he says as her single gold earring glitters in the dirt, “my Noya.” His nose brushes against hers and he smiles.

“In truth, by your side I would willingly storm the gates of the Dark City itself. Do not doubt it,” he murmurs. “Whatever comes tomorrow, we shall be together.” Morrigan’s ritual may save her from a Warden’s fate, but not a mortal one. If they die, they die together. If they live, they live together. Gently brushing away her tears, kissing her cheeks and tasting that lingering salt, knees pressed into the dirt and her hands on his back. Moving together, wrapped tightly, warm breath and warmer bodies, reassurance in every thrust, relief in a gasp, coming undone and stitching each other back together.


	335. To Distract (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I would love to see your warden and Zevran with number 75 from the kiss prompt list 

She stabs the knife into the tree, metal wedged into wood, hand wrapped around the hilt. “What an excellent way to ruin a perfectly good knife,” he tells her. He didn’t even break a branch to find her, disturb a single leaf. She whirls, flecks of bark falling to the ground as she points the knife at his throat. Zevran smiles, and with a finger, pushes it out of the way for him to move closer to her. “I thought seeing other Dalish would please you.”

“It would if not for the werewolves,” she says. Sheathing the knife, back in its place on her belt. Mahariel leans back on the balls of her feet as Zevran leans forward.

“Mhmm, and these werewolves did not dissuade you from wandering the woods by yourself?” The smile is still there, but different somehow, almost scolding. She resists the urge to laugh, but cannot stop the grin that spreads across her face. Rushing forward quickly, her foot wrapping around his, a hand on his chest, and she deftly knocks him to the ground. She plants her feet on either side of his chest, hands on her hips as she looks down at him.

“You think I didn’t know you’d follow?” He laughs, golden hair against the grass, pushes himself upwards, hands that travel up her legs. He looks so pleased for someone who was just swept off their feet. Shifting, kneeling before her, and her eyebrows raise as he beings to tug at the lacings of her trousers. “What are you doing?”

“Distracting you,” he says, “is it working?”

“Werewolves not dissuading you from doing this?” His answer is mumbled, muffled, by his face pressed against her belly. Mahariel smiles fondly as she runs her fingers through his hair. Pulling down her trousers inch by teasing inch, his hands running over her bare ass, holding the back of her thighs. Every kiss shows the talent of his tongue, no exception here. Closing her eyes, letting her shoulders and stance relax. Tilting her head back, shifting light on her face. Whatever frustration she had come to relieve, she forgets it instantly.


	336. Mabari (F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Prompt for Hawke having to bury her Mabari. Extra points if he dies helping her defend the Mages in Kirkwall, and there's no time to do a proper funeral for him in the all the chaos.

The biggest in a litter of six. He looked ridiculous, some lumbering giant among the smaller puppies. Carver and Bethany had fawned over all of them, trying to decide which one was the _best_. Hawke already knew. Picking up the little monstrosity in her arms and immediately – little paws on her chest, an eager tongue at her cheek, a tail wagging so hard that his body wagged with it. It didn’t take much to convince the twins. A bargain struck and Hawke would do two weeks of Carver’s chores while Bethany would name the mabari. Mr. Barks, so distinguished, named for his pathetic attempts at noise.

She should have realized something was wrong when mother finally agreed to let them have a dog. She thought the cough was nothing. Some lingering cold that would leave soon enough. Instead it worsened. She had always seen her father as untouchable, a strength she could only hope to match. She watched him wither and fade, sicken and die. Standing over his grave in the pouring rain, Barks at her side. Leaning into her hand, licking her palm. A slow whine as she kneeled down, wrapped her arms around him.

Barking at the door just before Carver slammed it open, blood on sword and sweat on his brow. “We need to leave,” he said, “they’re coming.” Barks watched them pack, only the smallest things they might need for the journey ahead. Running beside them as they left Lothering, their home burning in the distance. Tearing into the Darkspawn without hesitation, ready to protect his family. None of them could have predicted the ogre. Hawke had taken the scarf that Bethany loved so well, wrapped it around his collar. Ears down low, that lean into her hand, the kiss to her palm.

He had slept in between Leandra’s legs on the boat. She would scratch between his ears absentmindedly, thoughts on the body they left buried in a shallow grave. Hawke and Carver on the deck of the ship, watching the waves as Ferelden became nothing more than a memory. Barks was the warmth when they slept in the Gallows, their guide through Lowtown as they followed Gamlen. That first night curled up on that paltry bed, and he had slept on the floor beside her. Close enough that Hawke could easily reach down, give him a reassuring pat. She thinks he did more for her, than she did for him. He never seemed to worry as long as he knew where his people were.

Hawke had wondered, those few days in the Deep Roads, why Barks was sticking so close to Carver. Not until he stumbled, not until he fell, when Hawke caught her brother in her arms. Barks pacing with worry, that slow whine one again. Pressing his face against Carver’s cheeks, leaving slobber in his hair in the way he knew Carver hated, wondering why Carver wasn’t pushing him away. Wondering why Carver wouldn’t wake. Barks carried rocks in his mouth, pawed at the earth. Another shallow grave, another body left behind.

Hawke had stood in the middle of Gamlen’s shack, face blank as Leandra screamed. As she raged. Yelled and cursed and cried, pressing fingers into Hawke, beating fists against her chest. And when Hawke left, Barks followed. From house to house, taking shelter anywhere that would take her. Anywhere that wasn’t near her mother. He would sleep at her back, a warm and comforting presence. Unmoving, allowing her to turn and wrap arms around him, to bury her face against his fur.

Hawke had kneeled, face in her hands, Leandra’s body before her. That macabre white, violent reds. At least, this time, there would be a proper burial. Standing over the grave in the same way she had stood over her fathers, with Barks at her side. Leaning into her hand, licking her palm. A slow whine as she had kneeled down, faked a smile as she pet him. One of the few times she allowed him to lick her face, and her hands had trembled in his fur.

Exhausted, Hawke can barely stand. There’s blood down the side of her face, and she’s leaning on her staff. The mages who remain look between each other, and then at Hawke for guidance. She takes a deep breath, forces herself to stand straight. She expects him to be by her side, as always. “Barks?” Whirling as she looks for him, and the staff falls from her hand as she rushes forward. Falling to her knees as she pushes the body off, finding him underneath. “No,” she whispers.

He’s always been big, so big. He’s always been her puppy. That joyful wag and pink tongue, bounding happy circles whenever she came home. He grew into his bark, into his name. And now. Pulling him into her arms, and he’s still wearing the scarf. Holding him tightly, his head resting against her chest. No more wag. No pink tongue. No kisses to the palm of her hand. “No,” a ragged word as she squeezes her eyes closed, “please.” Out of all the things she’s lost, out of all the things she’s still losing, she thought he would be the only constant. Her steadfast family.

Another shallow grave. Another body left behind.


	337. May I (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Can you do happy Fenris and femhawke fluff? I'm not picky, I just love the way you write them and reading the fluffy stuff makes my heart happy.

After the first, he can only think about the second. Looking at the line of Hawke’s shoulders, how easy and carefree she sits. She looks across the table to find him, and she smiles so brightly, giving him a small wave. He can only sit straighter, his ears perking upwards at her attention. That first, that _first_ , and she had asked so sweetly “can I kiss you?” For their second, he will be the one to ask her. Fenris is confident that when the moment comes, he will know it, and he will not hesitate. Isabela leans over to whisper something in her ear, and Hawke is quick to throw back her head with laughter.

They walk home together, the only two heading in the same direction. She tells him what Isabela told her – lewd, of course, but it still draws a chuckle from him. Watching him as he holds his fist to his mouth, trying to cover the laughter. Smiling when he looks at her, as he clears his throat and straightens his stance. “I guess this is me,” she says, pointing at her door. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Hawke –” He steps forward, his body acting before he can think, reaching for her hand with his. She looks at him so curiously, but does not move away. “I – may I kiss you?” Looking to his left as he says it, ears flat and tips as red as the back of his neck.

“Yes,” she says, “please.” His ears twitch slightly at that, turning back to look at her. Standing in her doorway, and she gives his hand a small squeeze. His free hand finds her face, palm at her cheek. Nose brushes against nose, and her arm is slipping around him, splayed between shoulder blades. He can feel her joy in it, her fingers on his spine. Pressing his forehead against hers as they break apart, their fingers still twined together. The smile spreads across her face, and he can’t help but smile as well.


	338. Earrings (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Can I prompt you to write zev and warden’s first kiss? Not their first kiss during one of their you know, meetings in the tent, but the first kiss into their actual, legitimate, all feelings involved relationship

They sit facing each other. Her legs over his, knees bent and feet planted behind him. His legs under hers, knees bent and feet planted behind her. She’s leaning forward, hands between them with one pressed against the earth, the other in a fist at her chest. Tilting her head, staring at the stream beside them. Some peaceful rush of a thing, hidden by trees and moss. A frown of concentration as Zevran’s fingers trace the shell of her ear, find the perfect spot near the pointed tip. Holding the needle, the edge of his hand pressed against her cheek. A hiss through clenched teeth as the needle slides through flesh, and back again. He puts the needle down, catches the slowly falling drop of blood with his thumb.

She opens her fist, presents it towards him. It shines in the palm of her hand, that single golden loop. “You can still say no,” she says. How long had they dealt with it like quarreling children? His refusal to speak, her resistance to ask. The air between them frosted and cold, a chasm neither seemed willing to cross. Somehow, they had met in the middle. She had asked, he had spoken and then he had offered it again. Different this time, the truth behind it, a proposal in its giving.

“As can you,” he tells her. The smallest quirk of a smile as she holds up the earring for him. Taking it carefully, holding her ear gently. Pressing it against the newly created hole, pushing it through. Hers on the left, his on the right. A matching pair. Taking her face in his hands, brushing thumbs over cheekbones. She closes her eyes, shifts forward slightly, and he feels her hands at his chest. Letting a hand drift into her hair as they pull each other closer, as her arms wrap around him.

His eyes close as well as nose brushes against nose. Back and forth, and the stream laps over rocks. The breeze sweeps through the trees, rustling leaves as it passes. Flickering sunlight that streams through the canopy of the forest, touches colder earth. A strange thing for him, to put so much thought into a kiss. Suddenly aware of how he breathes, how her heartbeat matches his. How soft her lips are, how warm her breath is. Inhaling each other, borrowed air in his lungs, giving it back to her. Drawing her into his lap, her legs moving so that her knees and toes press into the dirt beside him.

Taller now, she smiles as she takes that lock of hair from his forehead, tucks it behind his ear with the rest. His hands at her hips, traveling along the curves of her, down her spine. Leaning into him, letting them fall together. Hair like a field of wheat, strands of it between greener grasses. Mixing with hers, that darker earth, her weight so perfectly resting on top of his. Smiling up at her and, “should I call you wife now?” She chuckles as she presses her forehead against his.

“Only if you want to be called Mahariel,” she tells him, words mumbled against his lips. Not a bad thing, he thinks. Free from the shackled of being a Crow, no longer belonging to the House of Arainai. Even if the name is offered in jest, he knows she offers much more. A choice, a chance, the taste of freedom.


	339. Trying For (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Prompt! “I’m pregnant” zevran/warden

“I think I broke a damn rib,” she hisses, a hand to her side as she steps over the darkspawn towards Anders. He holds up his hands, waggles his fingers.

“Come to your trusty healer,” he says as Mahariel rolls her eyes. He’s still grinning even as he presses his hands against her ribs, light of his magic just underneath his palms. The grin fades into a look of concentration, and then concern. His hands move to her shoulders, and she looks at him suspiciously.

“What?”

“Bruised, not broken. But – uh – did you know you were pregnant?” She stares at him, no change in her usual expression. Thin line of her mouth, grim straightness of her brow. Teeth clenching together and Anders thinks he might want to be running in the opposite direction.

“You’re sure?” She asks flatly.

“Yes, absolutely,” he says, his hands dropping to his side. Another few silent moments then Noya is surging forward, hands clapping to the side of his face, pulling him down to her for a fierce and deep kiss. Anders’s noise of surprise is muffled against her mouth, his eyes wide. The line of spit breaks between them as she lets him go, smiles, and pats Anders lightly on the chest. She leaves him standing there stunned, while Nathaniel walks up beside him.

“What was that about?” He asks.

“I’ve seen the face of the Maker,” Anders says, awe-struck.

* * *

“Your letter sounded so urgent,” Zevran says as he climbs over the balcony, “calling me back so soon after only a few weeks apart. Did you miss me that much, _amor_? I missed you as well – _oof_.” Noya with her fists in his tunic, spinning him around, throwing him onto the bed. She clambers up over him, straddling him, her hands pressed into his chest as she leans over him.

“It happened,” she says.

“How mysterious – did what happen? Has it finally rained gold? Or perhaps there is gold buried _under_ Amaranthine?”

“ _It_ ,” she says, lightly smacking his shoulder, “the thing we’ve been trying for.” Zevran’s hands are moving up and down on her waist, frowning as he thinks.

“The thing we’ve been –” His eyes widen with sudden understanding. “Truly?” He asks it hoarsely. She breaks into a wide smile as she nods, biting her bottom lip to contain it. He flips them with ease, an arm around her, legs between hers, and her hair splays over the pillow. Leaning down to kiss her with breathless excitement, before kneeling back and placing hands on her belly.

Bending over, pressing his face against her, and she runs her hands through his hair. “A baby,” he says, muffled, “my baby.” His hands are trembling in her shirt. She props herself up on her elbows as she looks down at him, a hand on his shoulder.

“Zevran? Are you crying?”

“No,” he mumbles, distinctly crying. Raising his head to look at her, closing his eyes as she gently wipes away his tears. Opening his eyes, that brilliant amber, pressing his forehead against hers. His hands on her face, in her hair, kissing her softly.

“Our baby,” he says, “our baby.”


	340. Housewarming (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: hey bb hb some fen being nervous to gift something to hawke?? 

He doesn’t mind sitting on the floor. She likes it best, legs crossed and elbows on the coffee table. He sits the same, although his hands are clasped in his lap. They’ve shared a meal between them, and he supposes that now is as good a time as ever. Reaching into the pocket of the bag on his belt, taking out a box. “I have been told that it is customary to give a housewarming gift,” he says, holding out the box towards her. Hawke raises her eyebrows, cautiously takes it from him.

“I – I wasn’t sure what would be appropriate. It seems you already have everything you need for your estate,” he says. Fenris had thought at first to get something for her kitchen. Perhaps a knife, or a collection of spices. Pots? Pans? Or instead a blanket, even some linen. Artwork? He had agonized over the decision for days. In the end, he opted for something more personal. Now she holds it in her hands, and he worries he’s made a mistake. For a fleeting moment, he contemplates snatching it back.

Instead, his elbows finally join hers on the table, lowering his head and linking his fingers behind his neck. Wisps of silvery grey hair bar his vision of her, and he focuses instead on the lines of the wood. The sound of Hawke gently undoing the bow. Lifting the lid and – a soft gasp. He raises his head slightly to see her taking it from the box, gold links wrapped around her fingers. The stone of it sits in her palm, a brilliant blue that matches her eyes. But even then – the stone pales in comparison. “Fenris,” she says, “this must have cost a fortune. I can’t accept this –”

“You like it?” He blurts it out quickly, his hands falling back to his lap as he eagerly leans forward. She bites her bottom lip as she looks at the necklace, and then at him.

“I do,” she says as she nods. He struggles to contain the sigh of relief. His shoulders fall, hunching slightly, finally able to relax. The smile comes easy.

“I am glad. There is no one – nothing – no reason for me to spend coin otherwise,” he tells her. Her fist wraps around the necklace as she looks at him, listens to him. She gathers up her hair, sweeps it away from her nape, as she clasps the necklace together. The blue rests against her chest, and she touches it with careful fingers.

“It’s beautiful Fenris, I – thank you. Very much,” she says. Putting her palms on the table, moving to her knees, leaning over. The necklace hangs as she reaches out, fingers curling against his cheek. Her lips find his other, and she plants the lightest kiss. His ears flatten, the tips burning a sudden red. As she sits back down, he clears his throat, his hand over his mouth.


	341. Endless (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: 18 - endless
> 
> A small sequel to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7304044/chapters/30340770)

“I’ve finished it,” he says as he stumbles into the aravel. Crawling forward on his knees to the pile of furs, the bow in his hands. Straddling the figure in the furs, his thighs locked tight around his hips. Ryfon leans back against the wall of the aravel, smiles up at the beaming Mahanon. Holding out the bow for Ryfon to take it, their fingers brushing gently as it passes. Following the line of the wood with his fingers, the taut string. While he examines it, Mahanon busies himself with sweeping Ryfon’s braid over his shoulder, away from his nape. A field of wheat against darker skin, but growing paler still.

Mahanon had chosen the mark of June. Working endlessly with his hands, the smallest wooden statuettes, bows and knives. Ryfon had chosen Falon’Din, for the death he knew would claim him. Best to gain favor with the god. Mahanon squeezes the end of his braid a little tighter. “It’s perfect,” Ryfon says and Mahanon casts aside all other thought to bring forth the grin. Taking Ryfon’s face in his hands, leaning forward to press the kiss against his lips.

“You think so?” Mahanon mumbles against his mouth, “me too.”

“So humble,” Ryfon says with a chuckle as he pulls away. Ryfon moves to give the bow back, but Mahanon pushes it against his chest.

“Would you mark it?” Something they had done since they were children. Every craft of Mahanon’s would be carved with intricate details by Ryfon. Everything they do, they do together. Ryfon nods as he puts the bow beside him. Hands on Mahanon’s thighs and travelling upwards, over hip and rib, pressing against his back. That’s how the healer finds them, so wrapped up together.

“Mahanon!” The line of spit breaks just as the kiss does, as Mahanon looks over his shoulder to see her standing there. “ _Felasil_! He needs his rest! Get out!” Mahanon scrambles back laughing, waves at Ryfon as the healer boots him out of the aravel. Ryfon still wears the smile as he settles into the furs again, reaches for the bow. It really is perfect.

* * *

Mahanon wakes slowly. Wincing as he presses palms against the bed, struggles to sit up. His ribs ache. Pushing back the blankets, lifting up his shirt, staring at the purple bruise that covers the side of his chest. Groaning as he leans his head back against the headboard, letting the shirt fall once again. Closing his eyes as he listens to the now familiar sounds of Skyhold. How did he get here again? His eyes snap open and he shoots up straight. The regret comes in the form of a groan, a hand pressed against his ribs. The other fists itself in the blankets. His _bow_. The sound of it snapping still rings in his ears.

Hands pressing against his eyes as he bends over, feels the hollow beat of his heart. The last thing he had of Ryfon, so needlessly destroyed. Changing into fists, hard enough to see the stars burst behind his eyelids. Clenching his teeth, shoulders shaking and even his ribs do not feel as bad as this. He takes a shuddering deep breath, wiping at his eyes with his arms and forcing himself to sit straight as he hears the door to his room open. “Oh good! You’re awake,” Dorian says as he walks towards the bed, his hands behind his back.

Dorian stands at the edge of the bed, leans over Mahanon, an eyebrow raised. “How are you feeling?” He asks and Mahanon weakly smiles.

“Tired, sore,” he says.

“I should think so,” Dorian says. It’s almost scolding, some worried undertone that puts a little bit of warmth in Mahanon’s colder center. “I have something for you. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of adding my own piece to cover the crack.” Taking his hands from his back, the bow held in them. Placing it on Mahanon’s lap, and his hands tremble as he reaches for it. Ryfon’s carvings, so perfectly there, and the crack – repaired. Where the break should be there is a snake, wound endlessly around the wood. Mahanon’s fingers trace it over and over again.

“Of course I don’t mind,” Mahanon says as he holds it tight, “it’s perfect.”


	342. Keeping from Tranquil (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "If you even THINK about touching them I'll kill you" please and thank you!!

“I appreciate your assistance in this matter,” she says, voice flat and expression flat, taking the bag from Hawke. Hawke always seems to linger around the tranquil, her eyes drawn towards that starburst on their foreheads. This tranquil does not mind the silence, the stare, the bag held loosely in her hands. “Is there anything I may help you with?” It breaks Hawke out of her thoughts, and she smiles as she shakes her head.

“No,” she says, “thank you.” Turning away, hands clenched at her side, staff on her back. Marching through the Gallows with her head held high. He’s never thought it a wise thing, for her to be there. Part of him thinks that she sees it as a challenge. Daring the Templars to test her, this Champion, this mage. Fenris plays with the red token around his wrist as he follows at her back. She has asked for nothing since that night, lays no expectations at his feet. She does not dare him to action like she would others.

Once, he feared her. Her magic. He’s learned much since that first meeting. She reaches the steps of the Gallows, begins to step down with the others beside her. He pauses, looks over his shoulder. The bronze statues of slaves. The place where so many like him used to live. Now housing mages, and their masters. His eyes narrow at the Templars.

Yes, Hawke is a mage but she is no magister. She is no – she is not like any other. If the Templars came near her, he would kill them. Turning back around, hurrying down the steps to catch up with her.


	343. Missing You (Zevran x F!Warden) NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: If you’re taking prompts rn, #64, 53 & 59 from the kisses list for zev/warden, nsfw pretty please ♥ ("Routine Kisses Where The Other Person Presents Their Cheek/Forehead For The Hello/Goodbye Kiss Without Even Looking Up From What They’re Doing", "Against a wall kiss", "Kissing So Desperately That Their Whole Body Curves Into The Other Person’s")

He’s memorized the walls of Vigil’s Keep. What stone to step upon, which groove to grasp. Upwards and onwards, to the balcony he knows all too well. He thinks he might have her this time. Pulling himself over the railing, softly settling his feet and the doors are slightly ajar. The curtains behind them shift in the breeze, and he is slow to slip through the crack. He expects to find her at her desk. Instead, fists wind themselves into his tunic, pull and push, shove him against the wall. Her hands move to his face, thread through his hair, body pressed tight against his and the kiss rough and eager.

“You thought you would surprise me,” she says in the breaths between kisses. Nose brushing against nose as she shifts, holds his face tightly. Pulling his bottom lip between her teeth, tongue slipping into his mouth. Hungry for her as much as she is for him, Zevran has a hand tight at her waist, the other splayed at her back. They lean into each other, curve into each other, and Mahariel is putting her hands on his shoulders. Lifting herself up, his hands underneath her thighs. Stumbling forward, papers and inkwells falling to the floor as he sits her upon the desk.

“I have been too long without you _amor_ ,” he says, voice hoarse. “Some would take the time to tell the other about their time apart first.” Her teeth at his earlobe, biting just enough for that twinge of hurt, her legs still wrapped around his waist. One of his hands pressed flat against the desk, the other still underneath her thigh. Swaying with each other, the motion of each rough kiss, eyes half-lidded and cheeks flushed. He has missed the way she tastes, the fierceness of her affection.

“Boring,” it’s a rumble in her throat, a half-given explanation as she tangles a hand in his hair. “I want you now.” She punctuates her words with a roll of her hips, her free leg with a foot on the floor to balance her. Pulling his hips closer to hers as she grinds against him, feels the straining hardness trapped behind the lacings of his trousers. An easy thing, to lift up her shift, she adjusts quickly to let him pull it over her head. A smile, when he sees nothing underneath. A goddess, one at whose temple he worships.

Truthfully, it’s not the way she looks. It’s the way she is. Naked truth, opinions plain. Goals simple and clear, a person so uncomplicated and forward. Knowing what she desires, unafraid to reach out and take it. In this moment, he is more than thrilled that she continues to desire him. Each long separation is an unbearable ache, nights spent dreaming of her, days spent missing her. She shows so much in each touch, in every kiss. She does not need to voice it for him to know she missed him the same.

More scattering papers fall to the floor as he sweeps the desk clear, allowing her to lean back. Stretching her arms above her head, looking up at him. Her hair splayed darkly, the heaving shift of her chest. The breasts that move with each breath, the blush in her cheeks and the tips of her ears. He rests a hand in the valley between her breasts, feels her heart beat underneath. Slipping downward, over belly, fingers at soft curls. Dipping into the warm wetness of her, stroking lightly at her entrance. He watches her head tilt back, eyes close and hands bunch into fists.

Turning her head as she shudders breath, as he presses a finger inside her cunt. She clenches around him, desperate for his touch. He can feel her legs shifting around him, the heel of her feet pressing against him. Biting her bottom lip between her teeth as he takes a breast in his other hand. Feeling the satisfying weight of it, rolling it beneath his palm. His cock aches with want of her, to bury inside her, but he takes the time to savour the way she twists under his fingers. “My beautiful, my gorgeous, my Warden,” he groans as her eyes flutter open.

A single glance is all he needs. Her eyes fixed on him, watching as slick fingers leave her cunt to undo the knot of his trousers. The teasing pull at each lace, reaching inside his smalls to pull himself free. Heavy in his hand, the tip already beading with pre-cum. She licks her lips as he strokes himself, teases out more of that clear liquid. Running down the shaft, against his hand. “ _Ar nuvena ma.” I want you_ , whispered again and again. “ _Ar isala ma_!” Patience running thin, the fiercest _I need you_. Hands reaching towards him, arms outstretched.

Aligning the tip of his cock with her cunt, pulling her hips forward. Meeting her halfway, burying himself inside her to the hilt. Leaning forward so that her hands are at his face, fingers curling against his cheeks. Her back arches, her hands slam back down to the desk with a heavy groan. Parchment crumpled beneath her touch at a heavy thrust, his knees knocking against the desk. Pulling her forward even more, holding her tightly, able to rut inside her without anything interrupting the rhythm. “So good, _amora_ , you feel so good,” he croons. He means every word. That tight, wet, heat, a feeling nothing else can match.

She pushes herself up from the desk, wraps arms around his neck. Picking her up once again, his cock still inside her, moving to the bed. At her direction, he lies back upon the bed, his feet still on the floor. Her own feet curl around the edge of the mattress, her thighs tight around his hips. Hands that press against his chest as she pushes herself upwards, and her rhythm takes over from his. Zevran takes a moment to lie back, to watch the way she moves. Her breasts shaking, hips moving up and down. Hair bouncing against her chest, her back, messy in front of her face. A trembling hand that pushes the stray locks out of the way, moves back down to his chest. It’s all so much.

Using the feet braced against the floor, he thrusts upwards, meets her every stroke. It makes her cry out, hunch over, unexpectedly caught by his cock reaching deeper than before. He holds her hips tightly, meets her again and again. Her eyes flash open, a hand reaching upwards, holding his face. Fingers at the curve of his jaw, her thumb at his lips. She holds him there, watches him carefully. Taking her thumb into his mouth, tongue swirling around it. “Zevran,” she groans, and he knows exactly what it means. He knows better than to change the rhythm, her pleasure so near to her.

Her cunt clenches around him tightly, wave after wave, riding out her orgasm. All sound, all breath stops, the moment frozen in time. Mouth slightly open, lips plump and red from attention, her eyes on him. It is the gaze that does him in. Looking at each other while he comes undone, pumps seed inside her. She holds him tightly in her cunt, draws out every last drop as her thumb slips from his mouth. They stay there for moments longer, spent in silence, listening to each others labored breathing. Only then does she move, lie on the bed beside him.

She tilts forward, presents her forehead. He chuckles underneath his breath as he tenderly sweeps away the stray hair, kisses her forehead. “Hello, my Mahariel. I have missed you,” he tells her.

“I missed you too,” she says softly as she curls around him.


	344. Fault (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 8 for fenhawke or zevwarden 

He struggles to hide the smile. Crossing his arms, raising a hand to cover his mouth. The laughter in his eyes, on his cheeks, is much harder to disguise. He’s never seen her so clearly pouting. “This is the worst,” she growls. There are papers spread all over the bed, reports for her to read, letters for her to sign. Even like this, she cannot escape it. She leans her head back against the headboard tosses a crumpled piece of parchment at him. “Stop laughing. This is all your fault.”

“I hope so,” Zevran says. Anders had confined her to the bed a few days ago. Zevran has been the only one daring to go near her since. Her simmering glares could reduce the weak to ash, he thinks. He kneels down at the edge, putting his elbow on the bed. Resting his face against his hand, smiling up at her. Noya reaches out, tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. He puts his other hand against her swollen belly, feels a small foot press against the other side. Twins, Anders had told them. Zevran hadn’t left her side since.

“Help me get out of this damn bed,” she says, “I want to go for a walk.” He opens his mouth to protest, but she stops him with a single raised finger. “It’s late. No one else will be up besides the guards and they _know_ not to tell.”

“That is not what I’m worried about,” he says as he puts his palm against hers, winds their fingers together. “You were ordered to this bed for a reason.”

“I promise that if I feel anything wrong, I will tell you right away,” she says. Zevran regards her carefully for a moment, before slowly nodding.

“The moment you feel something,” he says. He retrieves her cloak, boots and socks. She sits on the edge of the bed while he kneels down before her, kisses her knee. Putting on her socks, tying her books. They walk arm and arm through the hallways, slip out the side door into the courtyard. Noya breathes deeply the free and fresh air, smiles at Zevran.

How many times had she complained of feeling bloated? Large and unwieldy? He stops and she stops with him, as he turns to face her. Thumbs brushing over her cheeks as he leans in, and kisses her deeply. “You are so beautiful, _amor_ ,” he murmurs against her lips. She chuckles under her breath, a fist in his tunic, pulling him back for another.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she tells him.  


	345. Conversations (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 30!!!!!! (“I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you!” “And I’m trying to subtly avoid it!”)

“I have been trying to have this conversation with you for the past three days,” Mahanon says as he quickens his pace, following after Dorian.

“And I have been trying to subtly avoid it!” Dorian says, with barely a glance over his shoulder.

“By running away!” Mahanon stops in the middle of step, the middle of the hallway. The sleeve of the shirt he wears still hangs. He hasn’t taken the time to pin that one back yet. Dorian slowly stops as well, turns reluctantly. It’s hard not to feel guilty. He had begged, on his back, held down by Dorian and Cole. They hadn’t even given it a chance. When Dorian closes his eyes, he can still see Bull’s axe falling downwards. The horrified glance, the panicked breath. The ragged screaming, until Dorian had _pulled_ and cast Mahanon into sleep.

“The Inquisition is disbanded. I can come with you,” Mahanon says. “I’m not… the _herald_. Not anymore. I’m just me.” Dorian clenches his hands into fists, lowers his head. Stares at the cobblestone. “Dorian.” So softly spoken, quiet footsteps to match. A hand at his nape, Mahanon pressing his forehead against his.

“If something happened and I wasn’t there, you wouldn’t be able to –” _protect yourself_. All the others would see was a ruined elf. An easy target. An enemy to be tamed. Dorian already had a target on his back. What he would give to have Mahanon by his side, but that side – was dangerous. Too dangerous. “You can’t come with me to Tevinter. You simply can’t,” Dorian tells him. He looks up as Mahanon’s hand slips away, fresh heartbreak on his face.


	346. Dinner, or Breakfast (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: ok i got another one for you: “we met each other on a sunday morning, both doing our walk of shame” for fenhawke

A head on his shoulder, someone he doesn’t recognize. Mouth slightly open, snoring slightly. Somehow, this man is completely at ease, sleeping soundly, black hair light and soft against Fenris’s cheek. Fenris leans his head back, backpack on his lap and in his arms, and closes his eyes. Listening to the train against the tracks, the slight rumble of the window. The cut of the wind, the music someone’s playing a few seats down, and the snoring. Fenris opens his eyes, looks at the man folded in the seat beside him. Someone’s drawn a penis in lipstick on his forehead. Seems like he had a good night.

Fenris rubs at his eyes, wishing he could fall asleep so easily. A nap, when he gets home, he thinks. The next stop. The train slows to a halt, and Fenris gently presses at the head on his shoulder. “Excuse me,” he says, “this is my stop.” The only answer he gets is a grunt in return, that mess of black hair twisting. Fenris goes stiff as he turns, wraps arms around him.

“Five more minutes,” is mumbled into his chest. Fenris clenches hands around his backpack, presses it against his face, and pushes him back roughly. He comes too with a snort, looking around wildly. Much too late, as the doors close and the train is moving again. So much for that nap.

“Oh god, did I fall asleep on you? I’m so sorry,” he’s saying as he wipes the drool from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“It’s alright,” Fenris sighs, “I only missed my stop.”

“Shit, I really am sorry you know. I didn’t think I’d be this tired,” he says.

“Mhmm, it looks like you had a good time last night.”

“What do you mean?” Fenris gestures to his forehead, circles the air with his finger. This raven-haired man cocks his head, takes out his phone. A scruffy beard, wide shoulders. From the way his legs are scrunched into the seat, quite tall as well. Fenris clears his throat, looks out the window. Meanwhile, he has the front camera open, rubbing at the lipstick on his forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding me. How did I not see that?” He only succeeds in smearing red. “Isabela, you are dead to me,” he mutters under his breath.

“Your girlfriend has a sense of humor,” Fenris says, turning back to him. His eyes widen, and he barks out short laughter.

“My girlfriend? Izzy? Oh no. God, no,” he’s still chuckling as he puts his phone away. “You’re more my type, actually.” Fenris sits back further in his seat as eyes run from the beanie on his head, hiding white hair, to the scuffed sneakers on his feet. A charming smile, a quick wink. Fenris’s cheeks flood with sudden red. “Very handsome.” Fenris breaks out into startled laughter, covers his mouth with his fist as he coughs away the laughter and the blush.

“You certainly speak your mind,” he says.

“I try to,” another wicked smile. “How about I take you to dinner one night? To make up for making you miss your stop. I’m Hawke, by the way,” he says, extending his hand towards him.

“Fenris,” he says as he returns the shake, “I – I wouldn’t mind dinner.”


	347. Apples (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I hardcore headcanon Marian as being taller than Fenris- not towering, but like 3 inches. Fen's normal height for an elf, the Hawkes are just Dog Lord giants. Would you write something fluffy involving the height gap?

He reaches upwards for it, the tips of his gauntlets only just reaching the very bottom of it. Sighing as he raises himself on his toes, tries again. Almost, but not quite. He feels her behind him, easily reaching up and plucking the apple from the tree. Smiling at him as she brings it down, takes a bite. “Very funny,” Fenris says.

“Hey, it’s not my fault you’re short,” Hawke says with a smirk, bouncing the apple up in the air, back to her hand, again, and again.

“I am of average height for an elf,” he says, crossing his arms, distinctly unimpressed. “You are simply absurdly tall.” Hawke chuckles, takes another bite of the apple.

“And being so tall comes in handy,” she says.

“Mhmm.” He eyes the rapidly disappearing apple. Quicker than she can react, Fenris drops down to the ground, palms in the grass, swinging his leg around. He catches the back of her ankles, rips the ground out from under her. She falls backwards in surprise, the apple slipping from her grasp and right into his.

“Height isn’t everything,” he tells her, victorious, finally able to take a bite. It’s sweetened by Hawke’s laughter, hair disheleved in the grass, elbows in the dirt. Wrapping her legs around his, pulling him off balance, catching him as he falls. She pins him beneath her, the apple rolling away.

“Yes,” she says, “but it does help.” Leaning down for the quickest kiss, before springing to her feet. Reaching upwards, one apple and then two. He’s only just barely on his feet when she starts tossing them at him, and he struggles to catch them, hold them in his arms. Overflowing soon enough, filling the basket they brought with them.

“No need to be tall when you have me,” she says, closing the distance between them, handing him the last one. He takes it gratefully, smiles up at her.

“You do come in handy,” he says as she beams, “sometimes.”

“Hey!”


	348. Losing, Lost (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Have you done 11 on the kiss prompt list yet? I'm partial to fenhawke and cullen x inquisitor, or whatever comes to you ps ur writing is fuckin awesome (“I almost lost you” kiss)

He forces her back, blow after blow. A quick glance over her shoulder tells her how near she is to the edge. More than she would like. She raises her staff to meet his sword, deftly forcing it to the left, swinging up her bladed edge to meet his throat. He stumbles back, dropping his sword and raising his hand. The blood gurgles through his gauntlets, wheezing for breaths he can no longer take. With a flick of her wrist, Hawke sends the lightning through him. A quicker death, no need for him to suffer.

The staff is loose in her hands as she leans back, works the kinks from her spine, rolls her shoulders. Aveline is scribbling something in her notebook as she moves one of the bandits she’s killed with her boot. Finding the tattoo, and more scribbles. Sebastian is pulling his arrows from the bodies – no need for them to go to waste. Fenris still has his sword drawn, and as her gaze finds him, he pretends as if he wasn’t looking at her and turns away. She smiles, and so caught up in him, she doesn’t notice the bolt until too late.

The last bandit, one they’ve missed, atop one of the hills. The crossbow in his hands, one last effort at taking down the Champion. Sebastian calls out when he hears it, Aveline is already charging up the hill. Fenris is whirling, looking at Hawke, seeing the bolt catch her in the soft flesh near her shoulder. Staggering back, the staff falling from her hands. Reaching out towards him as she loses her footing, eyes wide as she falls backwards off the cliff.

It’s as though time slows for him. Seeing her hair curled at her cheeks. The staff beginning to clatter against the ground. Reaching for him, the fear on her face matching his. He moves faster than he thought he ever could, lyrium made lightning, the sword dropping from his grasp. Feet in the ground, kicking up dirt, stretching out towards her. He lands heavy against the coast just as his hand wraps around hers. She’s swung violently against the cliff, feet dangling over nothing. Over the waves crashing against rock far below.

He’s clutching the edge of the cliff, clutching her hand. Pulling upwards with all his might, away from the edge, pulling her over, into his arms. Holding her tightly, and she barely feels the bolt. His hand trembles on her cheek and she can tell he’s trying not to squeeze her, that panic still in his eyes. “Are you alright?” Fenris asks. She nods, and he lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Their legs are tangled together, one of her hands on his shoulder. An arm around her, and that other hand still at her cheek with the red still wrapped around his wrist.

It’s part of the reason why it takes her so by surprise, so off guard, when he crushes his lips against hers. Holding her a little closer, feeling that tremble still in his bones. “I thought I lost you,” he says hoarsely as he breaks the kiss. “I’m – I’m sorry.” She knows what he’s apologizing for. He’ll agonize over the kiss, their being apart. She brushes a hand against his cheek.

“Don’t be,” she tells him weakly, “I thought I lost you too.” Resting her head against his chest, closing her eyes. Hearing the footsteps of the others, Sebastian’s hand at her shoulder. Looking at the bolt and there is the pain, the burn, the rest of the world slowly creeping in. Fenris carries her back to Kirkwall. Fenris waits outside the clinic for her. Fenris walks her home. They don’t talk about the kiss.


	349. Kill For It, Die For It (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: GIRL U KNOW IM HITTIN U UP WITH A FENHAWKE PROMPT “I’d kill for this smile, I’d die for it.”

When was the last time she felt this tired? A fatigue deep in her bones, exhaustion in her blood. In every pore, the beaded sweat, the empty beat against her ribs. Lothering, she thinks. The day they spent running, smoke and ash at their backs. Screams still trapped in the rubble, the body of the baker’s boy. They’d been each other’s first kiss, on that hill, in that field of wheat. Eyes open, eyes glassy, and her hand tightly holding Bethany’s. There were no Templars left to care about her use of magic. She did what she could to keep her family safe. She still failed them.

She kicks away the slaver, a slam of her boot against his chest. He goes stumbling back, back against the wall, and it’s then she slams it down. Crushing magic against his shoulders, forcing him to the ground, breaking bone. The sickening crack and she’s turning to the next. They’re forced to waste time, energy, on these men. Then, the skeletons pulled from them, unable to escape Danarius’s grasp, even in death. The shades, the demons, wave after wave but still they stand. Hawke thinks she might have seen Danarius’s teeth grit, jaw tighten. He’s running out of tricks.

The same as the baker boy’s face haunts her dreams, she will never forget the look on Fenris’s face. When he came down the stairs. The horror etched into every line, despair in a man afraid to fear. How quickly he had turned it to anger, the hate so easily touched under the surface, but even that – _this was the Hanged Man._ How many times had she seen Fenris smile here? The laughter at robbing Isabela blind during cards, the smug grin of victory after a drinking contest. Easy happiness, easier friendship, and now it’s tainted. Another thing Danarius has stolen from him.

Killing him wouldn’t make it go away. Perhaps only just make it a little easier. She would kill for Fenris’s smile, she would die for it.

“Danarius! Face me!” Fenris shouts up at him, pulling his sword from a corpse. He burns blue with lyrium, with chains cracked yet unbroken. One more ending, the final stroke of the hammer, the last bond to be cut. Danarius’s barrier finally falters, falls. Hawke is quick to Fenris’s side, the others close behind. They would do this one thing together. She would not fail him.


	350. Throne (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For friends, based on a conversation had in my[ discord](https://discord.gg/ZWRQbnz)

A strange thing, to see the great hall so empty. Years of Skyhold being filled with people, and now his footsteps echo. Of course, many had left over the years. Once they had defeated Corypheus, their binding purpose had disappeared. It was to be expected. They had come to defend their home and now it was defended. They were free to go back to their families. Now that the Inquisition had been truly disbanded… they had left by the hundreds. Whatever duty, whatever purpose held them, was gone. Mahanon touches the arm of the chair.

He had been long reluctant to call it a throne. They were no kingdom, he was no king. He reaches up, touches the face of the owl carved into the stone. His request. If he was to judge, then he hoped Falon’Din would be watching. Guide them into whatever fortune deemed best. His hand aches, where it should be. A sudden throb, knowing what he knows now. Tracing the _vallaslin_ on his face, the lie of June. He closes his eyes, fingertips still at his cheek, listens to the silence. He knows the sound of those other steps, the feel of his arms around him.

Dorian rests his chin on Mahanon’s shoulder. “I should take it with me,” he says, “it would look stunning in my bedroom.” Mahanon chuckles, opens his eyes. Resting his only hand over Dorian’s.

“And here I thought I might bring it back to my clan. Put it in my aravel.” He tilts his head thoughtfully, “the halla might be cross with me, for carrying such a burden.”

“You see? Better off with me.” The throne isn’t alone in that. Dagna was eager, in those late night discussions. He could barely follow what she rambled about, but her excitement was infectious. She had measured the only arm he had left, and the other – cut at the shoulder. The veins there still burned the dullest green. She didn’t know how long it would take but he knew that once it was finished, he would join Dorian in Tevinter.

Mahanon twists in his arms, turns, brushes a thumb against Dorian’s cheekbones. A smile before the kiss, the tickling but familiar feel of his moustache against his skin. They sink into it, Dorian’s hands splayed on his back, Mahanon’s hand falling to his shoulder. He knew Dorian would find him. They’d barely been apart these last few days. It didn’t take much to convince Dorian to convince him to come back to Skyhold with him. A week, no more. They haven’t wasted a second of it. What he would give to wake up to Dorian in his bed every day. He pushes those thoughts out of his mind. Soon.

Pressing a hand against Dorian’s chest, guiding him backwards. Finding the seat of the throne, falling into it. Mahanon, triumphantly above him, long hair pulled back in that messy bun. Dorian looks up, some sort of greed in his eyes, licks his lips. Oh yes, he knew Dorian would find him. Going to his knees in front of the throne, in front of him. A kiss to his knee as a hand wraps around his ankle, travels up his leg. Dorian lounges easily, tilts his head back, hands wrapped around the armrests. “Someone could come, _amatus_ ,” he murmurs.

It takes effort to bite back the joke ready at his tongue. Too easy. Instead, Mahanon only smiles, a wolfish grin, teeth by Dorian’s thigh. His legs part easily, the bulge growing. Hitched breath as Mahanon presses his face against his cock, separated by those damn trousers. Hand squeezing into his thigh, fingers biting, Mahanon’s breath hot and heavy. Dorian groans when Mahanon looks upwards, those green eyes charged with desire. Dorian reaches down, traces his lips with his thumb. Mahanon nips at it playfully, allows Dorian to hold his chin there. With his other hand, he undoes the lacings of his trousers.

Moving his arm back, letting Mahanon pull his cock free. He grows achingly hard as Mahanon wraps his hand around him, runs his tongue from base to tip. Hungry for him, drooling liberally, and who knew a mouth could be so hot? A raging fire as Mahanon devours him deep, tongue swirling around the head of him. His hand still wrapped tightly, stroking easily, tasting the salt of him. The mighty Inquisitor, savior of Thedas, on his knees, mouth around the cock of a Tevinter Magister. But really – his beloved, in service, one Dorian would do for him a thousand times over.

He allows himself the pleasure of running a hand through his hair, setting free the locks of him. Pulling at the ribbon, letting it fall to the stone. Beautiful. Every inch of him. Mahanon’s eyes open, looking upward, framed so exquisitely. He nearly comes undone right there. Even more when Mahanon leans back, cock coming free from his mouth with a vulgar pop. Standing before him, the evidence of his own arousal plain. Mahanon undoes the buttons of his tunic, shrugs it off his shoulders. The lines of his _vallaslin_ curl down his neck, over shoulders and chest. A sight Dorian never tires of.

They’re scarred, crooked and broken, branches of a mighty oak cut asunder. Torn at the shoulder, a tattoo of a different sort coloring that part of him now. Dorian drags his eyes away from the wound, watches as Mahanon deftly steps out of his own trousers. Standing naked and proud, unafraid of any prying eyes that could come through the doors of the great hall. He’s daylight all his own, warmth, olive heat and liquid sun. “ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian says, “have I ever told you how gorgeous you are?” The smile tugs at Mahanon’s lips.

“Once or twice,” he says, voice hoarse as he puts a hand on Dorian’s shoulder, knees on either side of him. In Dorian’s hand he places the bottle pulled from the pocket of his now discarded trousers. Dorian raises his eyebrow.

“Prepared, were you?” Mahanon leans forward, still smiling, pressing his forehead against his. Feeling Dorian’s hands travel over his body, every curve of him. From the bumps of his spine, the swell of his ass. The stopper bounces down the steps of the throne. Fingers slick with oil, pressing at the entrance of him.

“In every way,” Mahanon says as he bites his bottom lip, eyes fluttering closed. Feeling fingers press at him, stretch him, test him. He thinks he might be pulled apart each time. Dorian kisses him back together. He had spent time in the bath before this, thinking of this, wanting it. He knew that this was the last time they might be in Skyhold together. Making memories is his excuse. But really, he just wants to. Dorian holds his cock steady as Mahanon slowly lowers himself. Reaching back, his hand on Dorian’s knee. Stretching out gloriously before him, tilting his head back, hair like an umber waterfall down his back.

Dorian holds his hips tightly, watches as Mahanon slowly begins to move. Taking him all in, burying inside to the hilt. Only then does Mahanon look down, open his eyes. Proving something, taking all of him, hips rolling and grinding. His cock bounces with him, leaking pre-cum. Dorian thinks he could not love him more. He keeps his eyes on him, a worshipper at prayer, as a hand leaves his hip and wraps around Mahanon’s length instead.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” Mahanon moans, “you will be the death of me.” Mahanon takes that remaining hand at his hip, puts it on the throne. His own hand crushing against him, holding him there, as Mahanon rides him expertly. The moonlight bathes on his skin, and every sound echoes in the great hall. Skin slapping against skin, heavy labored breath, every small grunt and groan.

“My dear Inquisitor, you really do not allow a man to last.” Their mutual laughter is breathless, and Mahanon leans forward. Head pressed against head, and he doesn’t break the rhythm, even as his hand moves to Dorian’s shoulder.

“I’m close,” he breathes, “with me.” Dorian’s hand is slick from the oil and with Mahanon, twisting his wrist and stroking him to completion. He cums in spurts, cock pulsing in his grasp, spilling seed on his hand and his tunic. Dorian’s hips thrust upward to meet him, groans ragged as he cums inside. Mahanon half collapses against him, both of them half exhausted from the intensity of it. Head in the crook of Dorian’s neck, curling like a cat.

“I need this throne even more now,” Dorian says flatly. Another smile, more laughter, a hard kiss pressed against his lips.


	351. Onto the next 350!

I've decided to split up each set of prompts, max 350. And I've hit 350 prompts here, hurrah!  
I've started the next set of prompts, which you can find by clicking here: [Click Me!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13636923)

Thank you so much to everyone who has prompted, who has commented, kudos'd and subscribed. You're amazing.   
Much love to each and every one of you.

Cheers,  
Jaws

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [ @jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/).


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